I Am Way Out In Left Field

I spilled the beans yesterday and aside from trying to sweep up all of the ones that rolled under the oven and the fridge, it was honestly not that bad. I also have decided to stop attempting to cover up the truth so frequently, especially when telling stories involving legumes.

You know walking in the park is just a walk in the park after all. Not sure what else I expected. Nice walk though. Super easy to do. Fresh air, beautiful flowers, only one bee sting. You know one thing that is no walk in the park? Swimming in the ocean. It just isn't.

I've been told that the walls have ears. I've been told lots of things. Can't tell you about them right now, not with those walls around, especially as some of the things pertain to the new "soundproof" paint I'm planning on covering those nosy walls with.

Even if I wanted to be a chip off the old block, I don't think it is possible. I've seen lots of blocks and chips in my time and what I would give to be considered a chip, let me tell you. Then again, maybe I am thinking too literally about this (something I've been rightly accused of doing on multiple occasions before). Maybe "the block" is more of an ideal, a perfect form, like a circle; something we all aspire to be and spend our lives working towards and I am this small "chip" aspiring to be more like my "block", almost like an arc or a tangent. Yes! I like this!  The "block" may represent this huge, possibly fictitious, rectangular prism "block" collection of humanity of which I was a mere chip in my infancy (and am still a chip, just a slightly larger one). Or maybe the block is just my dad and I am his son, the chip, and that means we are similar in many ways and that I came "from" him....I guess? Based on my limited understanding of human reproduction I think this analogy is a tad misleading.

I am painstakingly a man of my word. Whatever I say, even an embarrassing slip of the tongue, a blush-inducing joke, a high-brow soliloquy or just repeating "blah" ad nauseum - I do what ever is in my power to embody those words and live by them to the extreme. Nothing I say is of no, or minimal consequence (even when I say "no consequences", although that doesn't come up too often in my highly consequential existence)! Words leave my lips, even if by total accident or in some random, completely meaningless order and I will be a man of those words. Sometimes I release words from the prison of my brain and mouth (I'm actually a little unclear where they are housed inside my body) to see if I am up to the challenge of living by them (I used to, in my younger, naive days, try to be a man "with" my words but they would have nothing of it. And upon reflection, at my ripened age, who was I to think that I could be "with" them? They are words after all and I was just a boy, albeit a wordy boy. I was always told by my teachers that I asked too many questions and my unspoken rational was that I was trying to be "with" my words.) I hold these truths to be self-evident - all words are created equal and it is my responsibility, nae my duty, to honour each word and treat is as I would want to be treated if I was said words, as someday, I may be. 

You bring out the best in me, but we swore never to mention that gut-wrenching, energy-sapping, hyper-embarrassing evening and all that you had to do to me to get it out. Some things just aren't worth the effort.

I long to be worth writing home about. I can just imagine it - we meet (it can be across a crowded room or pretty much anywhere, crowded or not - that is not the point of this aside and I would like to stay on track if that is okay with you) and something I say or do or am wearing (who would I be wearing in this imaginary event?) is so profound or satirical or offensive (could it be profoundly, satirically offensive all at once? I hope so!) that you just must whip out an actual piece of paper (they still make those?) and a pencil (kept around for solely gnawing purposes) and script a letter for the people at home who are doing nothing better then sitting around waiting for a letter containing home-writing worthy material. As you can imagine, I have been longing for this for a while. 

Man! That guy is on fire! He is so hard core and I'm not sure how he can continue to shoot hoops with such a high efficiency while actually experiencing a variety of degrees of burning all over his body! Why did I decide to try and roast marshmallows on the sideline of the game anyways? 

The other night I was home alone and my face turned white (and for those that consider me a white person, it turned even whiter then my usual reddish-pinkish hue). Actually it would be more accurate to say I turned my own face white. I just can't leave that Geisha-makeup alone for even one night and don't get me started on those fabulous kimonos that are nearly literally calling out for me to wear them.

I can't stand that guy at work! I am so angry and frustrated that I plan to march into his office first thing tomorrow, stare him in the eyes and give him a piece of my mind. Aside from the anticipated long-term neurological damage, I am sure that it will be worth seeing the look on his face. Last time he takes my parking spot, most likely as I won't be able to work there any longer as even the most menial tasks will be beyond me, what with a part of my brain missing and all. 

Everyone has always gathering around and excitedly asked me to say cheese. I have steadfastly said no to this request (although on a number of occasions I was tempted to see which cheese would be procured if I had said it) until one day a camera-wielding maniac posing as my close friend, Marcus (or it could have been Marcus posing as a camera-wielding maniac or possibly just Marcus using the camera I bought him for his birthday with his usual joie de vivre) took a picture of me using the brightest flash available on the black market which stunned me and reduced me to a catatonic state where all I said for days on end was cheese and was only snapped out of it when dressed up in a life-like mouse costume (my friends tried to squeeze my girth inside an actual mouse-sized mouse costume to no avail, so they had to buy me gargantuan mouse duds which not only fit well, but made me quite a bit more attractive, especially to my near-starving cat) and force-fed me small pieces of chewed-up cheese a la parent bird to baby bird-style. I came to and for the next month had a strange reaction to hearing the word "cheese" - it made me want to escape to the nearby mountain top and pet mountain goats (really hard to do as they mostly just want to headbutt you). In hindsight it would probably have been easier to just smile for the camera.

I am quite easy going in life and not much cramps my style - aside from actual cramps, those are quite painful and debilitating. I am working on incorporating actual cramps into my style so they will be rendered unnoticeable to all but the keenest eye.

When people tell me that that boat has sailed I'm never totally sure how to react. Should I be angry? Possibly - as strangely the mere sight of a boat sailing is usually enough to make my blood boil. Should I be regretful? Over what? Not being on the boat? I'm happier on land any day. Should I be gleeful? Maybe throw a big, boat-has-sailed party for all of the people who are so happy that that gigantic, hulking, eye-sore of a boat is finally out of the way so we can just enjoy looking at the water. As I am wondering how to react to hearing about the boat sailing away, the person who said it usually leaves as well, much like the boat. If I am lucky he was also standing in front of some water that I can now focus my sole attention on.

For years now, I've been hearing that something I said is the oldest one in the book. And for years, I have nodded knowingly when hearing that. And then one day it hit me -am I so painfully unoriginal that all of my ideas have already been printed, published and sold worldwide! This would be quite the blow to my psyche as I've been walking around for years with a huge and probably off-putting attitude that everything that left my mouth was completely unique. And what book is this?!? If things I am saying are essentially re-treads and totally unoriginal ideas, I need to find this book and either destroy it, thus making me seem more original or read it so I know what is in the book, so I can attempt to say things to people that are not in the book. So, I spent every day for months researching trying to find this book, to no avail. Eventually I gave up and decided to just say every other word of all of my ideas, instantly making them new and fresh and almost completely impossible to follow.

I've been asked on a number of occasions to fork my money over, and I always refuse. It is probably a result of how I've been raised, but I will only use a spoon in matters involving the transferring of monetary funds and occasionally a ladle, which I believe belongs in the spoon-family regardless of what my "ladle is it's own form of cutlery" neighbour repeatedly tells me.

Someone told me the other day that I was just digging my own grave. What?!?! You mean after all of my toil and trouble for years, having to deal with the seemingly endless line of weirdos and all of the patronizing and the total lack of good chocolate, I am now expected to also dig my own grave?!?!? That better be just an expression! And even if it is, what sort of loser utilizes such morbid and confusing expressions to make their speeches stand out, points clearer and conversations sound more exciting? The sort of loser who can start digging my grave post haste, that's who.

I am in the process of stealing your thunder. I had considered trying to make a deal with you for it or even just asking to borrow it for a little while, but then you bothered me incessantly about my lack of understanding of brontophobia and I just had to get you back. We'll see who is afraid of thunder now, won't we?

Ouch!!!!!! I can't believe you actually lit a fire underneath me while I was sleeping in my hammock (you owe me a new hammock too by the way)!!! When I said, I think I need you to light a fire under me, I wasn't being literal! Yes, I know I am very literal most of the time and that I constantly castigate others for their overabundant use of flowery and metaphorical language. So, I sort of get why you have started taking me at my word and I do appreciate that.. But, a fire!?!?! Under what circumstance would I ever want a smoldering fire directly beneath me? Do I want my buns toasted, you ask? Yes, but not those buns! And why did you have to make such a large fire? Did the situation really call for a large bonfire or was that just a tad bit of excitement and over-zealousness on your part? When I said, light a fire under me, I meant that I needed your help finding the motivation to get out of the hammock and stop napping when it is such a nice afternoon. Now I have 2nd degree burns on my ass! You know, I've always had an inkling that you would hurt me one day, but I never thought this is how that would go down. I guess it is my fault - what did I expect would happen when I paired a hyper-literal person such as myself, with an extremely gullible person like you and then I compounded that by treating you to a year's supply of kindling and matches for your birthday.

Once again you have put yourself behind the 8 ball and you seem so stressed and anxious. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, that 8 ball is so small and it isn't really in your way at all. I really don't think you need to let it bother you. That huge, spherical, unmovable black rock that is on top of all of your important work that needs to be done tomorrow - that is your real problem - forget about the 8 ball. And while you are at it, I wish you would stop taking that ball from my pool table, making it very hard to play and placing it in front of you using it's proximity as an excuse for why you are feeling so stressed. Just admit it, I'm better at pool then you.

I know, I know, I know, I am way out in left field. Can I come home now?

If It Walks Like A Duck...

If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it must be a duck. Or quite possibly a small person dressed in a duck suit or a family pet encouraged to act duck-like or get flushed. Or a highly trained and camouflaged marsupial who has infiltrated the duck ranks, learned to waddle and quack without drawing any attention to itself, with the intent to take the ducks down from the inside. Not likely I know, just saying that it is possible and that you would benefit, in my opinion, from expanding your what-could-pass-as-a-duck framework.

If I say Bert is my friend then he is my friend no matter how imaginary your team of doctors and other mental health professionals say he is. And I don't care if the "putting a hat on his head experiment" resulted in a huge pile of feathered hats on the floor or not - that could mean lots of things....like maybe Bert has a particularly slippery head of hair, which could be solved by using a new anti-greasy shampoo. I know, I know that is my answer to everything.

If it looks like a corporate takeover and it feels like a corporate takeover, then chances are you haven't been doing your job and have been too busy checking out the classified ads looking for rare Japanese songbirds. You are so unfocused you wouldn't know a corporate takeover if it hit you in the face. Oh, and by the way, your services are no longer required here. Enjoy the songbird search.

If it looks like butter and it tastes like butter, then it must be butter! And if it ain't butter, but I can still cover myself with it and go sliding around on my belly on my hardwood floors to my hearts's desire then you don't see this guy complaining.

If it looks like an oasis and you are in the dessert and starting to hallucinate due to an extreme thirst and you are starting to see a whole collection of white-clothed men and their camels starting to perform incredibly choreographed numbers from West Side Story, then who am I to tell you it is a mirage. Drink away!

If it looks like a plate of noodles and tastes like a plate of noodles, it is probably a plate of noodles, although these days they are most likely not your grandfather's noodles (but it is probably still your grandfather's discoloured, chipped plate - buy some new plates, cheapo!). Nope, those noodles you just ate were made of either brown rice, quinoa, corn, spelt or some mix of the above. I guess the terrorists have won.

If I act like I own the place and I talk like I own the place could you at least allow me to pretend that I actually do own the place especially when my parents are visiting in June? I've kind of, sort of been telling them that I do own the place and they will probably arrive here expecting me to own the place most likely as a result of all of the photo-shopped photos I've sent them and the multiple t-shirts I made up saying things like "My son - the owner of the place", "My son, we've never been so contingently proud of him" and "My son is no longer a huge disappointment to us, at least for now - it is all dependent on us seeing some actual proof when we visit him in June." (I know, I know kind of long for a printed message on a t-shirt and maybe it smacks of me trying to hard, but I think they bought it).

If people collect it like it is great art and they are willing to pay tons of money for it, it must be great art, no matter how ugly, confusing and gaudy it may appear to you. You are clearly not that cultured and would it hurt you to visit the art gallery once and a while so you could stop embarrassing us with your lack of culture? And by "us", I mean "me". I am embarrassed daily by your lack of culture. And would it hurt to change your shirt from time to time as well?

If I decide to sing everything I say today as if I were in an opera and it sounds like an opera to my tone-deaf ears, then it is a opera. Either that, or just one really long, meandering song. Regardless, my two wishes for today are coming true - people are leaving me alone (I had a horrible sleep last night) and I am shattering wine glasses (I have plans to buy all of my friends new wine glasses for Christmas).

If it looks like a cow and produces milk like a cow, then it must be a cow. I can't tell you what it means, if it also says "oink". It just doesn't make any sense at all. Maybe some pigs decided to teach the cow to "speak" another language or possibly a few pigs made a cow suit and are hiding inside to scare the farmer or possibly the cow took part in a farm-animal exchange program where a young cow and young pig switch homes for a while. Another explanation is that it was a pig all along and you shouldn't be trusted with differentiating between various farm animals and the sounds they do or do not make or anything else of high importance as well.

If I move my hips and swing my arms and I call it dancing then it must be dancing no matter how much it reminds you of a dying swan.

If I cross my Ts like a mass-murderer and I loop my Ls like a mass murderer, I still don't care what your slew of handwriting experts say - I didn't do it! I know the evidence seems to point to my guilt, but in the end you will see that I am also the victim here. On the night in question I just happened to be running around the abandoned rose garden brandishing my pruning shears with my face covered in shaving cream after eating a delicious beet salad albeit very messily wearing my mother's Hawaiian dress. That's weird to you? Listen - I don't come to your house and question your gardening skills, methods of grooming, choice of healthy salads and why you have kept your mother's really old and horribly out-of-style Hawaiian dress, let alone your sanity, so why are you doing it to me? I understand that my writing is pretty strange and worrisome - I get that, I do. I remember my grade two teacher screamed and retreated to the corner the first time she saw me use cursive writing (she also cursed whenever I screamed and retreated to the corner, but that is story for another day), and I also get that the evidence is piled up against me, but what I don't get is how one becomes a handwriting expert. Really, I'm just saying that it seems like a cool profession and I have no idea how someone gets into that line of work. Do they go to college? Maybe something offered online? Maybe through a series of audio tapes? I'm just saying if I am somehow found innocent, I could be interested.

If he looks like a tall drink of water and is cool like a tall drink of water, that is all well and good, but stop trying to drink him or lick what you think is condensation off of his arms (it actually is condensation which raises a whole series of questions about him and what he is up to, but this isn't about him right now)- it is just so weird and off-putting. No wonder you are still single and dehydrated all of the time.

If it beeps like a phone and rings like a phone then it must be phone. What is that you say? Your friend Fiona also beeps and rings? Sorry, what? Are you telling me that all this time when I thought I was ordering pizza, texting my girlfriend and playing games I was actually just touching Fiona? I like to think outside the box and all, but this is fairly strange and it doesn't even make sense on a number of levels. Stop asking so many questions and "answer" Fiona's ring? I'm outta here. Can I have my phone back?

If it feels like a rich self-created fantasy land full of friendly witches, trolls with hearts of gold and unicorns and the fantasy land not only doesn't disappear when I pinch myself but continues to grow more interesting and compelling as I venture into the forest on my silver steed, then stop trying to wake me up! Isn't it abundantly clear that I'm happier here?

If it feels like the end stop questioning things, it is the end. Yeesh, what is with you people always over-thinking things and analyzing every little tidbit?...Oh yeah, that's me.

I Am Making You Sneeze

I look at the mountains and tears start to roll down my cheeks and I smile, as I am trying to be more sensitive.

I am the mountain he is looking at and crying and smiling about - is he always like this? What an emotional wreck - how can you people stand that? Can't you find someone more normal to be friends with?

I am steaming broccoli because it is the right thing to do - the humidity was dangerously low.

Broccoli here! Enjoying a lovely steam bath. What? You say he is going to eat us?!?! I knew it! He had that look in his eye when he bought us from the store.

I colour outside the lines in my colouring book as I refuse to obey the rules - plus it is abundantly clear that I need glasses.

I am the drawing that he has so recklessly coloured in, on and around. Although he may feel badly now, he will forget about me in a few minutes, but I will be left here to suffer forever until I am put out of my misery at the recycling depot.

I water the garden on the morning of a hot summer's day greatly enjoying the smoothness of the hose - should probably go see my therapist again soon.

You know, I always felt there was something "off" about how he holds me, the hose. And that is saying a lot - I'm used to be held rigidly like an automatic rifle shooting water bullets at plants, juvenilely like something used to urinate with and even lovingly like we were twirling during a romantic slow dance. I could tolerate all of those, but, the way he held me...I guess I would call it a mixture of passive aggressive and patronizingly jovial, but what do I know from complex emotions, I'm just a hose.

I take the mammoth unabridged dictionary off the shelf with great gusto - I have no intent on reading it - that was all just for show.

If you are going to take me off the shelf, the least you can do is open me and learn something or maybe caress my binding or even a simple hug would suffice.

I am feeling out and out deflated right now- why did I choose to spend the afternoon blowing up all of those balloons after she left me?

Wheee!!!!! Wheeeeee!!!! Yahooooo!!!! It is so awesome floating in the air, not a care in the world, at the whim of the breeze. I mean until you've been an inflated balloon, you just haven't lived. And I should know, being a lifelong balloon and all. Not sure if it's an option for you, but if you can give the whole balloon thing a try, you just have to do it. 

I pace up and down in the hall and then decide to pace sideways using shuffling-type steps performed in a semi-crouch before I finally get your attention, as even you can't tune out my ridiculously distracting pacing.

Click, clack, click...I am those shoes, the ones that pace in the hall, the same ones you hear fast approaching in the darkness, I'm also the ones that follows you on deserted streets, and I'm the ones tap dancing on your grave in your nightmares...Ha ha ha! Got you! Had you going, didn't I? Relax - we are just your old, much-loved, sneakers in the front closet. Nothing to be worried about.

I eat a banana for breakfast every morning and I feel...proud?

Aye! As a proud banana from a long line of proud bananas, I can tell ye this. My great-grand pa used to place me on his knee and say "Ahoy matee. We bananas used to sail the seven seas and ruled when times were good. Yaarrr, those days were glorious and we have lived to tell the tale. Nary a banana will walk the tongue plank and be eaten, ye mark me words. We bananas will fight and no man will board us. Now where is me rum?" Did I mention, we are pirate bananas? I don't exactly know why - my great, grand pa was little off and drank way too much rum (everytime I asked dad how a banana even drinks rum, I got a smack that nearly opened my skin and made me prematurely brown and bruised). My ancestor thought he was a pirate and the rest of us just followed along - quit judging me.

I spend the weekend cleaning out my attic coming across prized family heirlooms, dusty photo albums and old Halloween costumes that cause me to laugh out loud - then I realized, I don't have an attic.

Who was that? How did he even get here? Here is what happened...he came up my stairs, he opened my door and....disturbed my dust! Will he come again? It has been years since I have felt so...loved.

I am working on a challenging math problem and although I love challenges and puzzles, it is just making me hungry for cake.

Soooo....stop doing the math problems? Duh! I'm just sayin'. As a card-carrying member of the cake, we don't love being eaten. Like it's not horrible, but it ain't that exciting for us. So, why don't you put down that math book and go enjoy some fresh air. Skip or run or do whatever you humans like to do. And if you must eat, eat some fresh fruit - sorry to be so frank, but do you really need another piece of me? Yeesh - can you get a load of this guy - sitting around doing math...and it's not like I'm just sitting around with a sign saying "Eat Me" - what? I am? Okay okay - bad example, but still. Stop Eating So Much Cake!

I can't stop sneezing and I am starting to think that something is making me sneeze - there is no way this is purely coincidental.

Sam Sneeze here. I am making you sneeze. I'm doing it now, I've done it before and I will do it again. Why do I do it? Does it serve any greater good? Is it part of some grand scheme or plan? Can I make it sound funnier and more cartoonish? Am I tight with Cameron Cough? All good questions, but I have no idea, I'm just a sneeze.

I have decided that I need to exclaim more often to get my point across, but I am having a hard time nailing the timber and inflection of exactly three exclamation points - any less wouldn't be forceful enough and any more would drive people away.

I am an exclamation point and contrary to popular belief, I enjoy quiet strolls on the beach, lazy Sunday morning brunches doing the crossword and romantic movies on the couch at home. I'm not sure where everyone got the idea that I am some loud and crazy guy hellbent for excitement and thrill. I'm more at home on a country ranch then a disco party and I prefer mild, subtle food then burn-your-nose-hair-off chili. I need a new PR guy. 

I am sitting watching a frog by the pond and get the shivers - just a pretty cold morning and the frog won't stop staring through me almost like he sees within my soul.

It gets old pretty fast. Odd-looking, constantly-shivering guys with nearly empty souls just sitting there staring at me. Where have all the good ones gone?

Why Did We Leave Our Banjos At Home?

We are on a beautiful and relaxing walk in the nearby forest.
You comment that in many ways we are very similar to the trees that surround us.
I have to fight back the overwhelming desire to push you down and yell "timber".
You reveal that in moments of frustration you want to metaphorically chop me into kindling.

We are in our backyard on a beautiful summer's day doing some weeding in the garden.
I remark that in another life we could have been cute little puppy dogs.
You laugh and start to bark loudly, which is funny initially and then considerably less funny when it passes the 10 minute mark.
I finally get you to stop by smothering your face with long, deliberate, yet frisky licks.

We are preparing an amazing brunch, with you scrambling the eggs as I am toasting the bread.
You indicate that in a certain light we could pass for human-sized jars of dill pickles.
I am not sure how to take this but I instinctively turn my hat around and around trying to tighten it so you can't try to reach inside.

You wait until I am asleep before filling my water glass on my nightstand with a mix of vinegar, water, dill, garlic and salt and then placing my hand in it to begin the pickling process.

We are boarding a bus headed for Mexico.
I think that with the proper head wear we could easily pass for monarchs.
You turn slowly and regally towards me and silently indicate that you expect me to kiss your shoe.
I turn on my smart phone and start researching methods of regicide.

We are searching for wild rabbits to feed, all-the-while clutching pieces of carrots and celery in our hands.

You tell me all about an idea for a science fiction novel you thought of where large, dinosaur-sized bunnies try to feed wild humans scraps of vegetables.

I am quite surprised both by the thoughts in your head and also that I nearly dislocated my eyebrows as a result of those thoughts.

You stand there for a few moments, bemused by my reaction, before slapping me silly with a stalk of limp celery.

We are spending a rainy Saturday afternoon eating popcorn and watching movies.

I murmur to myself that I wish it was a sunny Wednesday and that we were eating peanuts and watching a magic show.

You bite your tongue to stop from saying something insensitive, after debating biting my tongue instead.

It is moments like this that make me wish you were a rubber tree and I was a plantation worker needing to extract your valuable rubber latex.

We have decided to repaint all of the rooms in our house.

You strike a particularly intimidating pose while wielding a brush.

I shrink away from you scared in equal parts by the pose and the brush itself.

To lighten the mood you shave off my carefully groomed and highly restrained mustache and delicately paint on an elaborately comical one in its place.

We are instituting new rules around the house that more closely agree with the laws of physics.

I wish that we could somehow bend the laws to make us significantly more attractive.
You make plans to cover yourself completely in magnetic tape.
I decide to carefully arrange the multiple prisms I have on hand to attempt to refract you.

We accidentally purchased 50 pounds of apples at the local farmer's market as we thought we saw a decimal that was just a pit.
You suggest that we bake a huge apple pie and, after it cools down, we hide in it and freak out your sister.
I get a horrible headache after 30 minutes of attempting a look that combines squinting, furrowing, and lip pursing all the while peeling apples for this pie.
In the end, you change your idea to just giving her a card and out of frustration I dump 20 pounds of peeled, cored and sliced apples on you, but decide to take the cinnamon and brown sugar home with me to use next time.

We are playfully playing tag in our bare feet on the sand at the beach.
I yell out to you that I love you despite the sheer amount of seaweed caked to your back.
You stop playing tag, cease smiling, slowly peel away the seaweed never once breaking eye contact with me.
Why did we leave our banjos at home?