Higher Comedy

My daughter is set for grade 3 next Fall and I was reminiscing with her about my school days.
I remember grade 3, my teacher was Miss Downie.
"Ya," replied The Bug wryly, "was she sad all the time?"

High Comedy

My son is a fine comedian. His latest joke:

You can pick your nose.
You can pick you friends.
But you can't pick your dad!

Rage

I am filled with rage. My fists are clenched in useless anger.
I will not be like that—my son will not be like that. Naturally aggressive, but we should possess the mental capacity to control and direct our aggression. Go for a run, play a sport, hit the gym.
I feel the blood begin to boil and I choose not to explode. I walk around the block instead.
Sometimes twice.

All day yesterday, I heard from people years in my past—reconnecting as though we never should have lost touch. We all picked up right where we left off. We were all connected to a man only a year older than me. After the funeral, we'll likely all go our separate ways until we are once again called together, hopefully for a completely different occasion.

What An Ass

So, I just dropped the kids at school and am now sitting in the coffee (tea) shop across the street. There's a group of moms here, but I'm not sitting with them. I have my laptop out and I'm actually doing an online course. It's an HTML/XHTML markup language program where the first class is free. So far I don't like it, but, hey, it's free.
    I'm finding the first lesson way too simple and I catch a bit of the conversation at the moms' table—something about "asses". I look over.
    "My ass hasn't looked that way since before the kids."
    "Mine hasn't looked like that for twenty years."
    "My butt has never looked like that!"
    They're talking about the server here who looks to be about twenty-two. They notice that I know what they're discussing.
    "What do you think, Denguy—has you ass ever looked like that?"
Much laughter.
    "Nope. But that's got to be one of the top five best asses in the neighbourhood."
No laughter.
I immediately regret saying that.
"Well—." The women go back to their conversation which turns to the effects child birth has had on their bodies.

It may have been a little inappropriate, but it wasn't as big a faux pas as the one I made last night.
    A woman was mentioning to me that her birthday was coming up and that it was kind of a big one. I instantly think she must be turning forty, but, honestly, she looked older. She's likely turning forty-five.
    "Oh," I say, attempting to sound charming instead of cheeky, "you'll be—what thirty-eight?"
It seemed a safe guess. I went low but not too low.
Seemed.
    "Uh, no. Thirty-five, actually."
    "Well, happy birthday then."

April Snow

Remember that old joke—the one about the Americans driving up from the States in June and asking the Niagara Falls border guards how to get to the ski hills? Well, it's fucking snowing here right now, so come on up, Americans, and bring your bloody skis!
    I know us Canadians is a hardy lot, but, honestly, enough already it's April!
    I T ' S   A P R I L ! ! !



This is a shot of my deck today. I imagine Jen down in a South American jungle reclining outside in a lawn chair and remarking in a slow, purposeful manner: "My, it's hot today."