Cooking Tips

Ever make lasagna and forget to boil the pasta sheets first?

I may have missed that portion of the recipe since the kids and I were fooling around in the kitchen when Mom was out the other day. So the Moms Delicious Meat Lasagna recipe became something like Delicious Hamburger and Tomato Sauce and Ricotta Cheese Soup/Stew Sort Of.

It was fabulous even though Mom made some faces.

Now preparing Kraft Dinner is a different story. This is something where I can truly shine. I have infinite variations on this simple yet timeless classic, and the skill to really pull it all together.

First you take your pasta ingredient (Macarena) and put it in a pot of boiling water.

Cook this pasta, pronounced ‘pahsta’ if you are snobbish, for ten minutes. I know the package says eight but we don’t read packaging – we are serious, professional chefs remember. I was trained by Chief Chef Al Dente himself, so back off on the eye rolling if you please. Ten minutes.

Once the pasta has boiled (ten minutes) you should check for doneness by hurling a chunk of noodle at your sister or the dog. If it sticks to her (sister) face then it’s done. If it just wings her or chips a tooth then boil for a while longer.

Pasta sticking to the dogs’ fur is not necessarily a good indicator of doneness, although having a dog coated with that evenings entrée does make greeting dinner guests rather entertaining.

So if it is done, it is time to strain it through a calendar. Collator. Something like that. Coriander maybe.

It’s a strainer thing that we sometimes use as a space helmet when playing with the kids.

Attaching some wires to it can also make it a brain scanning device or laser torture implement if you really get into it.

Using big pots for helmets can also be useful in larger space battles, but remember to drain any boiling water out of a pot before turning it over your head.

While on the subject, smaller children can also make a decent fort by emptying all the pots out of the big cupboard under the counter but big kids and grownups won’t fit. They need couch cushions to properly assemble a kitchen clubhouse.

Just so you know.

Anyway, once strained, you pour your Macarena back into the same pot, dump in a bunch of margarine, and stir until the margarine is melted. The noodles should have a glistening sheen to them so you know the putty-like cholesterol will coat your veins in rapid fashion.

Now comes the controversial part that causes huge debates at chef conventions – add milk before orange stuff or after the orange stuff? I’m not about to wade into that debate just yet – all I can say for sure is I usually add the orange stuff right after the margarine because it adheres nicely to the noodles, then we add the milk.

We have discussed the relative merits of using chocolate milk in our recipe but have not yet attempted this experiment. We will review the available literature on this subject and go from there.

Once the milk is in, you let the assistant chefs stir the completed mixture around and around until done.

‘Done’ is defined as when all the orange stuff is consistently coating all the noodles, or until the ant that fell in is properly drowned (poisoned?), or the wooden spoon breaks from bashing your brother with it, or all the above.

Serve in bowls, or eat directly from the pot using the stirring spoon(s) if you’re really wild, or Mom is not around.

We might try using food colouring sometime soon to see if the horrid orange colour can be softened a little.

It clashes with the chocolate pudding war paint.

A Horse Named Blart

We went and watched where meadow muffins come from the other day.

Well, it started out as a Wholesome Family Adventure Trail Riding Day, but naturally it devolved into the lowest common denominator: bodily function discussions. If you have kids, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

Children, of course, are fascinated by the whole horse tail-lifting phenomenon. They kind of like how horses don’t have to rush off to the bathroom to go number 2. It (the horse) just hikes up its tail and lets go, which they find very entertaining.

Me? Well, I’m old and cynical and I figure if you’ve seen one politician you’ve seen them all.

I enjoyed writing that last sentence very much.

So we were getting acquainted with the horses and their stuff (I was told my saddle had a horn but I couldn’t make it work), and after being told to “go mount your animal” (“Beg pardon?”), I finally got aboard a type of big horse called a ‘gelding’.

At first I thought the term had something to do with the horse’s colouring like grey, roam, pal’o’mine, spackle, apple loose, etc.

It turns out ‘gelding’ is a verb for what happens to boy horses. They cas…cast…they cut off…

Excuse me, I have to go lie down for a while, and will continue this column in a moment.

…Several lie-downs later…

I’m sorry, but as a man I find it difficult to discuss this procedure. You see, ‘gelding’ takes a boy horse and makes him - not a boy anymore. Understand? Let me uncross my legs again and we’ll continue with our story. Is it hot in here?

So we get on our horses and are about to get under way in what I imagine will be a manly, Hollywood-style flourish.

I would take the reins of my horse firmly in hand, turn him in the desired direction, spur the beast into photogenic acceleration and, pausing briefly for a Remington-like pose, off we’d go in a cloud of dust, into the sunlit brilliance of terrain looking much like the Grand Canyon. Just like in a classic western movie.

Or so I thought.

I think my horse was named Blart. As everyone else’s horse started walking away from the corral, I discovered Blart wouldn’t move.

My riding companions were growing small in the distance, and no amount of encouragement would get him going.

So there I am, alone on the windswept plain, furiously leaning forward and back, cajoling, cursing, rubbing my Nikes into his tummy in a curious imitation of spur usage, and nothing is happening.

My laughter at the situation was getting more shrill and hysterical as I contemplated what I was going to do.

I tried all the known commands – “Giddyup”, “Hi Ho Silver” “Yee Haw” “This way Camilla!”, but nothing worked.

Then an ominous rumbling could be felt inside the beast, and I discovered what Blart’s problem was. Perhaps he had been fed too much wet hay.

Some kind of bowel duress was afflicting the poor fellow, such that he couldn’t or wouldn’t move until he had experienced some relief. This came in an enormous postern blast that eventually erupted from its’ behind, whereupon it burst into a bone jarring trollop (or candor as us horsey types call it), the kids and I weeping tears of laughter at this jet-propelled locomotion.

As the horse slowed and stopped, I knew we were in for another long pause in our trek around the field, until such time as more gas, comprising several cubic meters, would make its way to its inevitable conclusion and off we’d go again. Thus we proceeded.

Growing up, I never saw a horse do that on television or in westerns. You’d never see Clint Eastwood or John Wayne get on their horse and then have to wait several minutes for it to expel its intestinal fortitude would you? Is that what (film) editors are really for?

Another myth shattered. Another family legend created.

Worse, I guess I have no alternative now, but to start writing country and western songs.

Giddy up.

Driving Diversions

Now that the toll on the Coquihalla highway is gone, I’m sure you’ll agree there isn’t much thrill in driving it naked anymore is there?

I did experience one last bit of fun at the toll booths the other day. I drove forward and backward through one of the toll stations several times, not just to relive the naughty joy of it all, but to revel in the fact I could do so now without paying.

To a skinflint such as myself this is high living let me assure you.

Anyway, it lead me to think of other entertaining activities undertaken while driving.

When I was growing up we usually drove in a Volkswagen bus with the middle seat removed. We’d lay on foam mattresses and amuse ourselves endlessly – ‘steering’ Dad’s ears, holding up ‘I’m being kidnapped!’ signs to passing motorists, bashing our heads on the sharp corners of the overhead air conditioner – you know, the usual stuff.

We didn’t even consider wearing seatbelts – even if they were available. Parents then were either oblivious to the danger or simply didn’t care. Our bus was so slow it would get bug splats on the rear windshield so it didn’t really matter anyway.

Our drives were also unbearably lengthy, sometimes as long as 3 hours if you can imagine the torture. Desperate parents would resort to idiotic things like pointing out interesting mileage numbers approaching, with a live play by play commentary and some family photographs of the great event for good measure.

It was on one of these long, boring journeys that a family legend was born. Why yes, it did involve me and how thoughtful of you to guess!

We refer to it simply as the “Help Me! Help Me!” episode.

You’ll be pleased to know that what follows is extremely gross and may be unsuitable for more mature readers. Kids will love it though.

We were having a “Who can make their face the reddest” contest. You’ll recall these events – hold your breath, grunt like you’re giving birth, and see how red/purple you can make your face. Simple really. Good training for fighter pilots. Or future hemorrhoid sufferers. Something like that.

So it came to my turn, and until the Great Blast, I was doing pretty well. My face was hot with the red iridescence pluming up my cheeks, my form was good, and the judges were nodding in approval.

I was on my way to another championship I thought.

Then it happened. Someone made me laugh, and instead of exhaling out my mouth like a normal person, I let fly with enormous pressure entirely through my nose for some disgusting reason.

The collective mucus of my pre-pubescent body, from my ankles on up, came exploding out of each nostril in massive snakes of grayish green uh, material.

Head bowed and not knowing what to do, but knowing I was probably in trouble, I started yelling “Help me! Help me!”

Of course this came out something like “Hep knee! Hep knee!” since I had enormous tubes of snot dangling from my face down to the floor of the bus.

I’m not kidding about enormous. These things were about an inch in diameter and over two feet long. Kleenex alone was not going to work here – I needed a bucket.

Of course my siblings did nothing to assist me in my plight – they were too busy pointing at me in a mixture of revulsion and awe and crying with laughter.

Here I had the entire contents of both lungs and most of my head hanging out of my proboscis and no one lifted a finger to help. In hindsight I must have looked like some sort of freckled walrus with hideous green tusks quivering in the air in front of my bowed head.

My charming family always sees fit to remind me of this episode anytime we get together. Heads bowed they chant “Hep knee! Hep knee!”, and my wife learns still more about her charming, mature husband and his upbringing.

I just smile quietly at their collective mirth and then sneak off and maturely piddle in their suitcases.

“Hep knee” indeed.

Enjoy your breakfast!

Political Analysis

Humour writers don’t often tackle politics, but I’m afraid I have to wade into several issues with a burning fire of passion. I think the medication is taking effect.

One vital topic that has yet to be debated in any election is, of course, the recent, shocking removal of sugar dispensers from Starbucks outlets.

If you can imagine, they have gotten rid of all the glass sugar containers in favour of individually wrapped little paper packets, the manufacture of which is increasing the company’s carbon footprint, which will in turn plunge the world into a new ice age, thus ending life as we know it.

People – we have to get organized.

Admittedly, the old dispensers didn’t pour all that well, being plugged up with moistened sugar lumps, bacteria and bits of sneeze debris. But if you were clever like me, you would know where they kept the new, dry, unclogged, germ-free sugar dispenser thingy’s under the counter and voila! You could impress your coffee date with your insight and power and not be concerned about toxic mutant sugar germs invading your beverage.

Now, though, one has to make crinkly, loud flapping noises as you force the sugar down into the bottom of the paper, then tear off the tops of several packets at a time, which is embarrassing since you are now revealing to the assembled multitude of coffee snobs just how much sugar you use to taint the purity of your coffee, you disgusting fat unworthy slob.

On the positive side, the sound of flapping sugar packets is usually annoying to the slender, fit, insufferably smug runners in attendance drinking their decaf, non-fat lattes – a beverage known amongst us fatties as a ‘Why Bother’.

Believe me when I tell you I am canvassing all candidates about this one, at least until security guards gently lead me away again.

On other, even more important political fronts, is it just me or did everyone else, upon hearing the name Dion, automatically add ‘and The Belmonts’ afterwards?

I realize that anyone under the age of about 70 will probably not understand this reference. I can get away with that witty remark since I once worked at an ‘oldies’ radio station in my youth, and we had to play that group over and over.

I suspect that is why Mr Dion (and The Belmonts) didn’t win the election and is now being shown the door thanks very much have a nice day sincerely The Liberal Party.

Of course now that I’ve mentioned Dion and The Belmonts, my head naturally jumps to their music, specifically ‘Runaround Sue’, their huge number one smash hit from about 1935, which will remain in my head all day on permanent replay, hopefully loud enough to drown out some of the voices.

Quite frankly, it’s enough to drive me nuts.

Somebody once said that when you have a song stuck in Cranial Repeat Mode, if you sing it out loud it will go away.

This technique works well but the urge usually strikes me at inopportune moments, like at company board meetings or Chamber of Commerce functions. There, the torment of the song meets with my disgust at listening to it all day, and I burst into song quite out of the blue in an effort to get rid of the infuriating thing once and for all.

The minutes of more than one meeting have included sentences like “…and then Mr. Crawford started singing ‘Waterloo’ by Abba for some reason, until security came and shot him with a tranquilizer gun”.

I was secretly hoping Stephen Harper would burst into a rousing rendition of ‘Who Let the Dogs Out?’ at a tense press conference. It would have made him one with the people and led to a landslide victory no doubt.

Perhaps someday we will have the ability to permanently download the songs from ones head with a small MP3-type recorder.

Watch out Celine Dion.

And The Belmonts. Aaarrrgh!

I’m telling you, these political columns really take it out of a guy.

Nocturnal Transmissions

For the longest time I’ve been curious as to why, when I wake up, the bedroom has been re-arranged. I go to bed with my glasses and other small objects on the nightstand, and in the morning they are all on the floor.

More than once I’ve awakened to find a pillow over my face.

I’ve also been having these really vivid dreams where I feel cold steel pressed against my head.

It turns out I snore, at least according to my wonderful, tired wife.

I’ve done some research into this and the problem is apparently with my soft pilots. Pilates? Something like that. Software pirates maybe. Anyway, I guess it relaxes when I fall asleep, and my punching bag, or ‘ovulate’, starts flapping around back there, causing snoring.

I happen to know how frustrating snoring can be from personal experience.

It was on a fishing trip up the coast in a friend’s cabin cruiser. We would fish all day and after the dinner and serious drinking was taken care of, we would sleep on board our anchored accommodation. Did I mention it was a fairly small boat?

One of our companions was a fellow named George, who drank heavily, and had teeth that slept in a jar at night.

Now when George fell asleep, pretty much everything north of his nipples relaxed, fell down his throat and vibrated…Loudly!. Our entire evening sounded something like this:

“George…hey George”

“Huh?”

“You’re snoring – shut up”

“OK”

30 seconds later…

“George hey George”

“Huh?”

“You’re snoring”

“OK”

And so on. All night. We didn’t get much sleep. I don’t think they recovered the body, and I know my fishing friend still misses that spare outboard motor. I know I miss my sock.

So knowing how loud a guy can snore, I feel genuine compassion for my long-suffering wife. She’s in the basement right now cleaning the guns. That’s twice this week, bless her.

Here’s another thing. I offered to let her use my sound canceling headphones (the ones I use when mowing the lawn) and my idea was rejected! They work great, and I can’t understand why anyone would get so upset with such a generous offer. I know she wouldn’t be able to turn her head when wearing them, but isn’t that a small price to pay for relief from this supposed noise I create?

Oh, now that’s funny. What is that radio doing so near the bathtub? Darn kids…

I’m not even entirely convinced it is me doing the snoring. Our dog Lucy is getting to an age where she gurgles a lot too. When she starts dreaming of chasing rabbits or badgers or whatever, she really gets into it. Barking, yipping, thrashing her legs around. She has a real party at times, and if my dear wife can sleep through that then what’s the problem?

My wife is sharpening the knives again – it must be dinner so I have to go. See you around.

“Say Honey, do these pork chops taste funny to you?"

Astern Warning

It was a beautiful evening at the lake.

Crowds of single people were walking on the beach, looking hopeful as they lived up to their personal ads.

From across the water I listened to the haunting, plaintive wail of a boater examining his fuel bill. 

The beauty of the moment overwhelmed me, such that I decided then and there to pick up milk on the way home.  And write something about boats.

Now when it comes to power boating, my only real experiences were the times I putt-putted about a large, shallow, mosquito-covered lake with my father.  Or perhaps it was a mosquito covered boat, and my father was shallow.  I can’t remember.

The engine in our fine vessel, as I recall, was one of those ancient outward motors.  Outbound?  Outdoor?  Something like that.  Outhouse motor maybe.  Anyway, it had one of those ropes with a knot in the end with which to start it.  You would wind the rope around the spindle thingy and pull with as much swearing as you could muster, and with any luck it would start. 

I learned some of my best bad words watching grown-ups attempt to start these beasts.  It was an idyllic time.

Another type of boat that can teach you swearing is a sailboat, which has spinnacles, ropes, jibes, ahoys, tilleys, witches, starboards and other stuff to play on.  They are terribly complicated and don’t go very fast, and I am quite good at setting them on fire. 

A chum and I had moored our sailboat at the dock in Vancouver after a hard, cold, wet day spent trying not to sink (known as ‘fun’ in sailing parlance).  We had been imbibing liquid anti-hypothermia medications, safe in the knowledge that since we were now tied up at the dock, nothing dangerous or stupid could happen. Ha ha!

Actually, something stupid could happen. You could put an idiot (me) in charge of refilling an alcohol stove that an idiot (me again! Hi Mom!) had never filled before. 

With the confidence born of idiocy and heavy drinking, I extinguished the stove flame briefly, then poured a bunch of fuel onto the red hot stove parts, which blew up. 

With a mighty “Crump!” my arm was aflame, as were the alcoholic vapours of my breath, my eyebrows, nose hairs, mustache, shirt, and large sections of the boat itself. 

Like a scene out of The Matrix, I leapt in slow motion for the fire extinguisher, while at the same time thrusting my flaming arm into my crotch, which I realized might be counter-productive.  By then I was committed to covering my aft, though, so I resigned myself to having not only burnt arm flesh but also crisply roasted privates.

Server: “And how would you like those done, sir?”

Me: “Rare please.” 

My mind played tricks on me and I imagined I was a crazed gunner at Pearl Harbor, leaping to action stations. I aimed my anti-aircraft fire extinguisher skywards and let fly.  My flaming eyebrows spoiled the sight picture, however, so I corrected the spray of white powder downward at the conflagration, which mercifully was extinguished. 

My friend helpfully stomped out my eyebrows and gave me a smoldering look.

Thinking nautically and being in the moment, I shouted “Damage report from all stations!”  My friend smacked me again and loudly noted that I was not, in fact, Admiral Halsey or Charlton Heston but a klutz with a smoking head and a lost damage deposit.

So as you enjoy these early days of summer, take a few moments to listen to the water rhythmically lapping at the shoreline, and the muffled whooshing sound some people make when captaining a vessel or making tea. 

And when you hear stories of large, flaming sailors shrieking like school girls and squirting fire extinguisher powder over most of the western hemisphere, remember this old mariner.

They still call me ‘Red’ you know.

Food Rules

The Food Consumption Rules Committee is pleased to issue the following for your edification. Following these rules will lead to marital harmony and personal gratification. Political candidates might also be canvassed as to where they stand on these important matters.

Lets begin with Peanut Butter and Jam rules – which are extensive. Please pay close attention.

No butter on the bread! This causes the peanut butter to slide around and is inappropriate. Toasting and then adding peanut butter is acceptable since toasting firms up the bread, thus increasing peanut butter adhesion.

Jam goes gently but firmly on top of the peanut butter with a slight mixing action allowed. Jam never goes on its own piece of bread as the increased liquidity of the condiment causes unsightly stains to soak through to the cover side of the sandwich, thus labeling you an amateur.

Peanut buttering both pieces of bread to circumvent the above is considered extravagant and wasteful and should be avoided.

Attempts at breaking up large jam lumps for more even jam distribution are to be avoided as this can cause unsightly tearing of the bread.

There is a limit of 4 large jam lumps per sandwich, or one lump per bite depending on aspect ratio of lump to bread size (mathematical formulae available).

There are no rules regarding crusts and their retention or excision. Crusts are mainly there to keep the bread inside the bread (according to my kids) and are therefore expendable.

Let’s move on to other victuals shall we?

Rules regarding the consumption of breakfast cereals are straightforward but detailed.

Dry cereal is governed by the Proportional Volume rule, which stipulates that cereal is to be patted down in the bowl prior to milk delivery so as to compare the level of cereal in your bowl with that of your siblings. This ensures equal distribution amongst members of the household and is vitally important to maintaining proper decorum during breakfast proceedings.

The Proportional Volume rule is sometimes contravened by Dad who eats enormous bowls of Honeycomb even though Mom calls him a pig for so doing. The rules committee is wisely leaving the adjudication of this controversy up to the members, who should understand that Dad’s are larger and therefore command a larger bowl.

Rude words constructed with alphabetic cereals are subject to rapid punishments, as determined by how many of the words are visible to authorities prior to consumption. Some words carry more stringent penalties than others.

Cartoon programs are allowed to blare in the background during breakfast, provided authorities can be heard yelling to get upstairs to brush your teeth and get dressed for school.

Once milk has been delivered to the cereal, all cereal is to be smunched down into the milk. Partial smunching is allowed to retain crunchiness as desired, provided all cereal is ultimately smunched.

Drinking from the bowl is allowed at home, only when the female head of household is not present. Doing so at a restaurant or other public establishment will result in a surreptitious clout upon the body of the miscreant, delivered by whatever enforcement officers are present at the time.

Consuming liquid refreshment straight from the containers is also governed by the above rules.

Care should be exercised while pouring milk onto flaked cereals. Frequently, concave flakes will re-direct the stream of milk from its downward trajectory to a more horizontal one, thus causing spillage over the side of the bowl.

Official Proclamation:

Whereas; milk poured from a great height can cause spectacular geysers when concave flakes are positioned in a certain manner and,

Whereas; household pets enjoy having milk shoot out from the sides of bowls directly into their mouths,

The Official Mom Rules Committee hereby deems that milk spilled during cereal milk geyser experiments is to be entirely cleaned up by the scientists conducting said experiments.

Further, Moms who have recently assisted with the dressing of household members in clean clothing, frown upon horizontal geysering of milk and other substances, and will issue further rules and/or punishments as deemed necessary and prudent – up to and including the possibility of only consuming cereals while naked.

That is all.

Toil in the Soil

My gardening expertise began when we originally did our landscaping. I followed our contractor around for at least ten minutes, so you can be assured I know what I’m talking about. You can still see where they placed the paddles on my chest after we got his invoice too.

First, gardening is all about dirt. Not the great, shameless gossip you get from legislative reporters – real dirt.

Soil they call it - consisting of equal parts sand, mud, Pete, rocks, sticks, Gravol, and a nutritious organic material called dumbpost or fencepost. Something like that. Soylent Green maybe.

Anyway you need lots of soil. Spread it around to a depth of several hectolitres where you want to grow things, and simply wait for the built in weeds to German Ate (I have no idea what that means either).

Turns out, you can grow almost anything in dirt, especially here in the Okanagan. That is because we are in a certain ‘zone’, zones being imaginary, laughable boundary areas that are supposed to indicate what should grow where you are. The problem is, because the maps are so tiny in the garden book, you are actually attempting to grow things from Arizona (zone 1) in the Arctic (zone 20) you moron.

For example, walk around our place and you’ll see we have Hostages, Clamatoes, Hystericals, Spyro Gyras, Chrysler Anthems (all zone 18 I believe), Irishes, HideRangers, Orcas, Doozy’s, Peonists (zone 2.5), dog poop (oops)(zone everywhere), and Purple Saliva and Sweet Pee (twilight zone/full sun zone). I don’t know what those little yellow ones are called.

The city park next to us kindly supplies us with a near limitless supply of weeds too. We have Gultch, Knapsack, Bully, Yellow Annoyance, Pansy Rageworth, Spotted Pain, Canada GooseWhistle, Angry Kneecap, City Council and many others.

So you can see there is a lot going on in a garden.

You may have guessed by now that we have a rather large yard. Our original plan was to have a lovely garden that we could admire between naps while lounging on our front porch. As such, we acquired plants that, we were told, were ‘low maintenance’.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha I cry with increasing madness in my eyes. Low maintenance indeed. Let me wipe the spittle from my mouth as I go muttering about the yard, cursing the ‘expert’ staff and all their spawn at garden nursery locations. They are all lying scum.

Children are low maintenance. Large factories are low maintenance. Huge earth moving machines are low maintenance. Gardens? I beg to differ.

Oh sure – the staff at gardening centres appear to be polite and friendly. They are in fact sadistic, evil warts. In their world, seeds always sprout, weeds never appear, water falls from the sky, and little garden faeries ruin their knees, backs and trousers pulling up the weeds that grow like, well, weeds.

And another thing. Beware of plants that are ‘Native to the Okanagan’.

I have renamed our wild rose bushes because of this. They are now called Expensive, Prickly, Enormous, Invasive, Suckering Monsters With Hideous Berry-like Things That We Actually Paid Good Money For When You Can Get Them For Free Right There Outside The Fence.

I call them Dammits for short. The flowers are nice though.

Lastly, don’t eat Oregon Grapes (hint: they are not in fact grapes - yet another bit of amusing irony foisted upon the masses by ‘garden centres’). These pseudo-grapes taste like hell and you cannot use them to make wine either. (Not good tasting wine anyway. If you like a good Sour Bitter Outhouse Armpit vintage be my guest, or attend my next home-made wine party).

Oregon Grapes do, however, make a satisfyingly messy paste the children enjoy smearing over the furniture.

Natives often used this paste to permanently dye their clothing, we discovered.

My wife is now scouring Home Depot for Oregon Grape-coloured paint to match our permanently stained, Oregon Grape-coloured furniture.

I am outside, pulling weeds.

Acne Acme

I realize this may be disgusting to talk about – but I cannot help it any longer. I need to get this off my chest. And face.

When I was growing up, it was my understanding that pimples would pester me until around age 20. Then zits would fade away and I could move into adulthood and all the attendant joys associated with it – love, marriage, baby carriage, life insurance, etc. Something like that.

I accepted this fate philosophically as a teen rite of passage. I was OK with it.

Well, here I am in advancing yet feisty middle-age, and still, every month or two, Mr. Blemish makes an appearance.

As I write this I’m being plagued by zits – two to be precise; including one of those huge monsters you can feel coming but can’t do anything about because it hasn’t ‘ripened’ yet.

This thing is going to be the size of a cupcake by early indicators – right before a big presentation in a couple of days. I get to stand in front of a large roomful of people with an oozing red crater on my face – charming.

Now don’t go telling me I need to wash my face more thoroughly, or use a cleanser or a laffah or defoliate or whatever. I wash my face in the shower every morning quite thoroughly if you must know, so if I’m doing something wrong then why don’t more zits appear more often hmmm? There – I’ve run logical rings around you already and we’ve just begun. Ha!

And by the way – men don’t wash their faces like girls each night before bed either – it is unmanly and we won’t do it. That’s what pillowcases are for – facial dirt, drool, occasionally lipstick if we’re lucky. Or experimenting. Whatever.

Some of my more poignant memories are acne related unfortunately.

I can remember to this day the morning of the first day of grade 8. I was quivering with anticipation at being able to see The School Hotties.

I had life-threatening crushes on all of them, even though our only interactions were an occasional “Hi” in the hallway. These casual greetings naturally fueled many (OK, all) of my lurid sexual fantasies and if you’ve ever been a teenage boy you’ll know what I’m talking about mmmkay?

My hormones raged. These girls were known as the Terrible Ten for some ironic reason. And, oh my were they cute. They had legs and bosoms and wonderful smiles and bosoms too. One of them even had hair down to her bottom – probably the most erotic thing I had ever seen on a real, live person.

Where was I? Ah yes – back to school, grade 8.

So I wake up, shower, stand before the mirror, and there at the tip of my nose is the most humongous boil I had ever seen outside of a horror movie.

It was an angry red pustule that could not be hidden no matter how much of my sister’s makeup I rubbed on the monster, and could not be popped - yet. I was crushed, defeated, deformed. I wanted to wear a mask or cut my nose off. I wanted to be admitted to hospital for the first semester. I considered calling in a bomb threat but my eyes were crossed from staring piteously at this Rudolph-like orb on my face.

At school I slinked down the hall and…the girls said hi to me anyway! They wouldn’t come within twenty feet of me of course – a boil is still a boil. And that sucker hung onto the end of my nose for weeks without being able to pop it.

But it was a start. I was on my way into puberty - shaken, covered in stolen makeup, but relatively unscathed.

And so all was sunshine and rainbows for the rest of my entire life.

Actually, now that I think about it, this column was supposed to be about the election. Nevermind.

Callous Remarks

This column won 2nd place in the August/September 2009 America's Funniest Humor writing contest. Yay me! Enjoy.

My bare feet were making a funny “Rrrip-Rrrip” sound as I walked across the carpet. 

Looking down, I discovered the edges of my heels resembled barnacles, and it was these crustaceans that were snagging the broadloom like Velcro™. 

Since I am a true do-it-yourselfer, I checked to see if my wife had any technology I could use to fix this problem – a potentially ticklish issue. 

For example, women have this thing they use to bend their eyelashes.  My kids and I think this lashbender device would be useful as an insect guillotine and are looking forward to using it in that role.  Don’t say anything. 

The only useful item I found in her Mysterious Female Ablution Accessories Drawer, though, was a wooden paddle with sandpaper attached to both sides. 

“I can beat that,” I thought, racing to my workshop, trying to ignore the erotic possibilities of a wooden paddle with sandpaper on both sides. 

I dove into the abrasives drawer and grabbed some commercial grade, diamond grit sandpaper. 

As professionals know, sanding is important for a fine finish and this rugged paper would get the job done in manly fashion.   

Now decision number two loomed: power or manual?  Do I get out the trusty orbital, palm, or belt sander?  Or should I just see how it goes freehand? 

A vibrating tool in any mans hand can be dangerous at the best of times.  What if my feet burst into flames?  What if I had multiple orgasms?  Heavens.

I decided I would tackle this job free-hand and see what happened.

I began to wonder: do I sand with the grain, or across it?  Do foot barnacles even have grain?  What is the price of grain anyway?  I was beginning to lose focus.

Thinking it would help to soften up the raw material, I sat on the edge of the bath, feet immersed in warm, soapy water (lavender scented if you must know), reading a magazine, feeling downright contemplative.  I was tempted to light a candle.  I almost watched Oprah.

Then came the moment of truth.  I removed foot number one from the water and placed it in the bench vise I had conveniently clamped to the side of the tub. 

Bending to my task, a dreadful rasping sound rent the air, followed by a plume of skin-bits, barnacle flakes, sweat, sawdust and talcum powder, a jar of which I spilled while vigorously assaulting my cracked and turtle-like skin.  A smell, reminiscent of lavender-scented bacon, filled the house.

Now, I have worked with pine and mahogany and oak before, but never bunion.  I felt like an artist, a post-modern Michelangelo, sculpting in a new and exciting medium – callous!

Well it worked just fine – my heels emerged silky smooth and the operation was a complete success.  Hardly any blood, only a thin layer of dust everywhere, and now I no longer leave a trail of scratches across the hardwood floor. 

Carpets no longer hamper me.  My shoes fit better.

Life and barefoot locomotion are wonderful again. 

I’m curious, though: How often will my feet need a new coat of varnish?