Sunday, January 30, 2011

"They call me...Six Eyes"

So I got some swanky cool new eyeglasses the other day.

Boy are they strong.  I can see the scratch on the beak of that crow across the valley from here.  It's what's a foot in front of me that is causing me problems.

My eye Doc has apparently changed my subscription by a few ornithopters, such that now I can't see anything directly in front of me.  This can cause some d9je8*wlow eout029ur5 jfeirt lsityq well you see sometimes my fingers don't hit the right places on my computer.

Until I broke my most recent pair, my glasses were fine for typing and up close viewing.  Then I broke them and had to make do with my old, old prescription.  This was OK, but I looked like a dork (more so than usual, if that is possible).

So now what I do is wear my contact lenses during the day, coupled with the reading glasses I perch on the end of my nose for up close reading or whatever.

When I get home and take my eyeballs out, I switch over to my new Super Power XRay Star Viewer Glasses with Telescopic DiOpticators!

Then it gets a little weird.  Since these aren't bifocals (a mental lapse brought on by abject poverty), I am now forced to wear my reading glasses in addition to my super cool new spectacles.  I will provide a picture of this ultra-cool visionary ensemble in due course.

I may also need a small suitcase to carry around all my optical accoutrements, and their cases.  Regular (new) glasses.  Reading glasses.  Sun glasses.  Old glasses (just in case).  Sixteen bottles of fluids for contact lenses.  Dinky little holder thing for my contacts.  Special glasses wiper cloth thing.  

Yup.  Six Eyes.  That's me.

It's great getting old isn't it?

Wednesday, January 26, 2011


Mean Judge: “I sentence you to 20 minutes of having two children practice their recorders in your car!”

Me: “Nooooooooo!  Please!  Mercy!  Whip me instead!  Hang me!  Water board me!  Not recorders!  NOT RECORDERRRRS!!!!” 

[Prisoner, foaming at the mouth, is escorted from the chamber.]

The torture instrument known as the recorder (an ironic name in that it has never been recorded without attendant ear pain and screaming), is one of the more popular instruments inflicted upon parents by sadistic music teachers. 

Other dreadful instruments in this category include the Xylophone, Glockenspiel, Messerschmitt, Budweiser, Lubejob, Pomegranate, and Woodblock.  

The recorder, known in its native German as DersqueelingkEarsbleeden, or ‘Annoying Large Whistle’, is a wooden interpretation of what a badger being run over by a five ton truck might sound like. 

The sweet melody produced by these instruments (we really do need a sarcasm font, don’t we?) always brings back memories which I thought had been erased by many years of therapy.

It all started in elementary school, where I was sentenced to several years of musical instruction by my parole officers (or “Parents” as some people refer to them). 

My first music teacher was a charming French woman named Mrs. Boehnert (pronounced Bo-nair). 

Mrs. Boner, as we instantly and maturely called her, was a charming and matronly woman, who we suspected was also deaf as a post and unable to speak English. 

Her favourite (perhaps only) English phrase was “Vey fine!” (very fine).  Everything was “vey fine” no matter what transpired.

Me (raising hand): “Mrs. Boner?  MRS. BONER!  May I please go to the washroom?”

Mrs. Boner: “Vey fine!”

Me (after an hour of wandering the halls, committing various acts of vandalism and truancy): “Mrs. Boner? 
How do I play this recorder thing?”

Mrs. Boner: “Vey fine!”

I graduated from the recorder (from the Latin to “squeak horrifically”) to the clarinet (“play only while drunk or attempting to become so”), to the saxophone (did you know a skillfully loaded saxophone can hold up to twelve cans of beer?). 

I will never forget the sound of our high school band, winning music competitions with sweet melodies like “Overture for Zits,” “Variations on a Theme of Puberty,” and “Concerto for Dorky Blue Uniforms Vey Fine.”

Band tours were common until the government found out.  We would routinely inflict ourselves on unsuspecting communities where families, who had upset the local school in some way, were forced to take us in.    

People not only had to let us stay in their homes (“Back away from my daughter or I’ll play this recorder!”) but also assemble in their gyms and listen to us “perform.”    I suspect they were bribed to do this with large cash grants from the municipal emergency reserve fund.  No one would volunteer to do any of this without coercion of some form. 

These and other warm memories come flooding back to me as I observe my children beginning their musical odysseys. 

I observe only, since I am wearing earplugs.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Things That Sound Dirty But Aren't #2

Pertaining to the Insertion of Contact Lenses:

  • There should be no pain associated with a proper insertion
  • Excess fluid can be wiped up with a tissue
  • Do not insert anything that appears torn or damaged
  • Leaving one in for more than 12 hours can cause dryness and discomfort
  • Video recording yourself during insertion can be awkward using one hand, but is healthy and normal
  • A great place to do it is in front of a mirror in the bathroom
  • Holding the eyelids open during the act is not a sign of boredom

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Heavy Petting

This is an entirely true story.  The faces of those involved have been blacked out to protect their identity.

As a recent convert to cat ownership, I am gleaning insights into cat behaviour which I find interesting, if not disturbing.

For example, one of our two (male) cats passionately makes out with me every morning. 

My normal morning routine is to sit at my desk while coffee brews in the kitchen, turn on my laptop, check email, and learn the day’s news.  As soon as I am ensconced at my work station, a cat leaps onto the desk and proceeds to make out with me in several different, amourous ways, which I’m going to detail right here in this family newspaper.

First, he butts his head into my chin.  I never realized that a sign of affection in the feline community was to gently bash one’s forehead into the chin of your paramour.  A few butts later, the cat stares soulfully into my half-asleep face and decides that a good lick of my nose is in order, and proceeds to do so. 

Several licks upon the proboscis later, he moves down to my whiskery chin for more wet attention-giving.   

Now it is time to sink his claws into my bathrobe and any exposed portions of my chest.  My (former) terry bathrobe now resembles a fur coat, such are the pulled threads from his claws.  The numerous puncture wounds to my chest look no better.

He now switches to the heavy petting stage of our encounter.  First, he rears up on his hind legs and gives the top of my head a good sniff while I get to closely examine his belly, which he conveniently places in my face. 

Then he lies down on my hands, leading me to think the passion has subsided and I can actually peer around him and check email. 


He immediately gets back up, sits before me, and stares soulfully into my face again.  Then, in a fit of passion, he leans forward and smears the side of his mouth against the side of my nose.  First one side, then the other.  His smearing is, apparently, the height of his affection, since he usually saves it for last in his bag of make-out tricks.

To summarize, the sequence of our early morning affairs goes something like this:

Headbump.  Headbump.  Headbump.  Lick.  Lick.  Knead. Flop down.  Back up.  Lick.  Bump.  Smear.  Stare.  Smear.  Headbump.  Flop down.  Back up.  Knead chest with claws. Smear.  Lick.  Lick.  Bump.  Smear.  Flop down.  Back up.  Knead chest.  Stare.  Lick.  Flop down again.  Back up.  Bump.  Smear.  Lick lick.  Smear.  Smear other side.  Bump.  Lather.  Rinse.  Repeat.

All the while, I am turning my head this way and that, trying to look past his busy face to read something on the screen of my computer.  Or to possibly type something intelligible in a humour column if at all possibl%#rejtn,.scv.  Excuse me – he just sat down on my hands again as I was typing there.

I do not know if this in any way constitutes gay behaviour on his part (or mine).  Frankly, I don’t care.  We have a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy regarding these acts of passion and adolescent curiosity. 

He just won’t leave me alone.   

Being on the receiving end of these advances gives me pause, and I would like to now offer a sincere apology to all women I dated in my younger days.  I now understand what it must have been like with me, and I just want you to know I had nothing but the best of intentions. 

If I happened to head-butt you in the process, I hope it didn’t cause too much bruising.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011


The Military Police busted me at the airport.

“Soldier, your uniform is mussed and you need a shave.  Your overall deportment is unmilitary and I’m going
to write you up for it.”

“Aw, come on Sarge – I’m being deployed to Afghanistan.  Can’t you give me a break?”

“Call the number on the back of this Uniform Deportment Enforcement ticket.”

I called.

“Deportment Department.”

“Yes, I’m being deployed and I was written up for my deportment.”

“Ah.  You want the Deficient Deportment Enforcement Department.  Hold please.”

I held.

“Deficient Deportment Enforcement Department.”

“Yes, I’m being deployed and I got written up because of my sloppy deportment.  What are my options so I don’t have a permanent record?”

“You’ll probably need an Imminent Deployment Deficient Deportment Development Deferment.  I’ll transfer you.”

I was transferred.

“Imminent Deployment Deficient Deportment Deferment Development Department.  How can I help you?”

“I’m being deployed and I got written up for my deportment.  I don’t want a permanent record so what do I do?  I’m growing despondent.”

“There is a segment in the Despondant Imminent Deployment Deficient Deportment Deferment Department regulations which pertains to this.  Let me see if I can help.  What’s your assignment?”

“Dependant Apartment Advancement Development Department.”

“Sounds like a permanent assignment.  I’ll see if I can help.”

He called…

“Phil?  Bill here.  Yeah, I’m good.  Jill too.  Listen, I’ve got a despondent Permanent Dependant Apartment Advancement Development Department Assignment here.  He got written up by some overzealous MP under Imminent Deployment Deficient Deportment Department regulations.  Can we do a Displacement Deterrent order instead of the full Imminent Deployment Deficient Deportment Department Developments Deferment?...I thought so.  Thanks.”

“So what’s the news?” I asked.

“As a despondent Permanent Apartment Advancement Development Department Assignment Dependant, charged under Imminent Deployment Deficient Deportment Department regulations, the full Imminent Deployment Deportment Department’s regulations don’t pertain to you.  You’ll receive a Deficient Deportment Displacement Deterrent Deferment instead, since you’re in transit.  You see?  It all makes sense now.”

“Bottom line?”

“Good news and bad news.  The good news is, you’re free to go.  The bad news is, your assignment has been changed.  You are now a de facto Deployment Deportment Deferment Department Detained Defendant Appellant Assignment Attendant.”

“That’s great!  Say listen - I’m also looking for some ligament irritant liniment – do you know where I can get some?”

“Soldier – you’re becoming a pain in the thesaurus.  You are dismissed.”