Sunday, September 12, 2010

What to write about?

It is always a challenge to pick a topic.  I have so many different things that I could focus my keen and wondrous intellect upon that it is sometimes distressing to think about.  To wit:

- Dare I become a bored housewife-type humourist and write about amusing cat behaviour?  I certainly could, given that our kittens have now been discovered performing random acts of mating.  This is distressing on several levels.  First and foremost - they are brother and sister, albeit of different fathers, which is another thing I did not know about cat litters, or about mother cats, the horny little sluts.  Another reason for distress is that we have not had them fixed yet.  Another reason is we were told the both of them were males, hence our delay in getting them fixed.  The one with long hair was proudly showing me his/her genitalia the other day, when I had a closer look for his doodads and could not find any.  Either he is seriously under-endowed (poor guy), or is female and therefore a slut.  I suspect the latter, and I also suspect her brother to be the reason for the kids saying "Dad, what are the cats doing?"  There is a joke in there about 'cattie-style' too but I'm not going there.

- I could write about how one of the cats only drinks from bathroom taps when we are brushing our teeth or washing our hands.  I don't particularly enjoy wetting my toothpaste with cat spit, so I am also tempted to write about the new sport of cat punting.

-  I wanted to write something about my amazing kung-fu skills when swimming with the kids.  When up to my chest in water, I can perform the most amazing flying side kicks, spinning whoop de doo flailing flop kicks, spinarama chop whirly kicks - all sorts of things, all against my children.  Meanwhile, they are attacking me with a variety of noodly weapons and their own martial skills, with the serious intent of knocking me over.  Their evil ways do not harm me, however, since I employ secret weapons like the Long Range Mouth Spray of Death.  Using only pool water laced with urine and other contaminants, I am able to spray water viciously into my children's begoggled faces and make good my escape to deeper waters.  In close wrestling encounters I am also able to unleash my Kid Backward Flip-o-Rama, the Over Head Hurtle, or the awesomely effective Tickling Peril.

When you can grasp the locker key from my prune-like hand, it is time for us to leave, Grasshoppers.

- I may jot something down about our fishing adventures at the (rental) cabin over the summer.  And by 'fishing' I mean 'covering the bottom of the lake with bits of bread and gummy bears,' of course.

- The phrase "Time stood still...," holds special meaning for me, and I find myself musing about my many circumstances therein.  I have had so many instances where time slows down that I should be several years younger than I presently am.  These moments include, but are not limited to, closing the (locked) door on the (running) automobile, suddenly remembering the need to purchase fuel as the vehicle rolls to a silent stop, or having a hardened glob of wax, the size of a peppercorn, hurtle out of my ear and onto the desk of an attractive woman who was interviewing me for a job, and so forth.

- I may at some point bewail the music choices my children are beginning to make. I have always prided myself on having eclectic tastes when it comes to contemporary music, and I hope my children are the same.  I like to think I'm not like my parents, it's just that they (my kids, not my parents) play it so darn loud, and I cannot understand the damn lyrics and it seems like all they do is swear and hop-hip and I just don't get it.  I mean, I enjoy the Black Eyed Chili Peppers and other wholesome pop groups as much as the next codger, but these kids seem to be going gaga over the strangest things.  And I wish they would pull their pants up.  And lose the black makeup.  Don't get me started about tattoos and lip rings.

- I may reminisce some day about a music teacher I had in grade 5 - a certain charming French woman named Mrs Boehnert (pronounced Boh-nair), a name which we conveniently contracted to Mrs Boner.  Not only did she introduce me to the intimate musicality of the xylophone, I also became adept at the glockenspiel, for which I still retain certificates on my office wall.  Though it pains me to recall, I was also quite talented at what was then called Interpretive Dance.  Nowadays it is called Sissy Gay Twirling or something, but back then I was a star.  Actually - I'm not going to write about that - never mind. 

Like I said - some time I'll actually break down and write about this stuff.  Don't rush me.

1 comment:

P Shane McAfee said...

I loved this one. I am always amused when a writer writes about writer's block. It's actually a good way to combat the block. I humbly provide my own example.