Crib Curse

So the Sperminator put the crib together last night. The crib that was a bed that was a crib. Which apparently is a great money saver, because its convertible, but is also a major pain in the ass, because it’s convertible. I think the husband was about to throw in the baby blanket (you know, instead of the towel) and just go drop another $700 on a new crib, but decided to keep going because, well, I was holding a power drill to his skull. And the only place to store the double-bed is on top of a flaming bonfire.

So anyway, now the crib is put together and everyone can go on living (I’ve been nagging at him to assemble the crib for weeks). But now it’s been built with ANGER, and I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to build shit like that with this thing called love.

So now the crib is cursed, held together with negative vibes, and the baby to eventually call it home will never ever sleep on account of it. She was probably doomed to be a poor sleeper anyway (Max didn’t sleep for 10 months, which I’m reminded of every time I look at the crib because it has teeth marks on the side where he tried to chew his way out, Shawshank Redemption style). And now she’s certain to keep us all awake forever. Because her loving daddy built her crib like he was building his own coffin.

Fuck. I may as well hang a picture of Shel Silverstein above her bed and be done with it.

CREEPY CRIB MAN

Panties are the devil.

I hate underwear. Or maybe it’s that underwear hate me. Why else would they irritate the FUCK out of me like this? Riding up my hole like they’re looking for treasure in the attic. Chafing at my lower gut, where my baby bump meets my pubis fuzzimas. My groin looks like a teenage boy’s face.

I bought bigger undies the other day. Damn near grannies, in fact. But they made no difference. The only way for underwear to be comfortable right now is for me to wear them on my head. And don’t even bother suggesting those big maternity bastards to me, the ones that wrap up around your belly. It’s hotter than a baby in a microwave these days, and I do NOT need another layer of fabric on me, hell to the no. And if you even utter the word thong, I will send a bag of dog shit to your house.

Last week, I thought I had the ultimate plan to boycott underwear forever. Commando all the way. I’m preggers…no more shark week surprises…why not, right? Hell, if the wind blew my skirt up you’d barely see my twatter anyway with this big ol’ potbelly casting its ominous shadow, and my giant gelatinous ass cheeks migrating down my thighs.

But then it happened. My first “snissing” incident. I was in the checkout line at the store and I sneezed, and a widdle bit of pee dripped onto my sandaled feet. Out of my freakin’ urethra! The route from piss flaps to floor had never seemed so direct. More obstacles required. I hoped nobody noticed and carried on like I was not a leaky bag of hot piss. Another great reason to carry baby wipes in my car: to clean the wee from between my toes.

So yeah, the only way I can give up underwear right now is if I take up adult diapers instead. Or wrap my lower half in plastic. Or go around with a toilet attached to my ass.

For the love of god, someone invent a urethra cover. I don’t need the rest of the fabric, and the elastic can go straight to hell. I just need the part that covers the pisshole. To catch the piss. To be at least some kind of barrier between my tiny bladder and total humiliation.

I impatiently await your prototypes.

What is this TWO business?

mannequin brother

We shall call him Manny.

One of the most overused words in advertising is “simple.” But overused for good reason. In this supersaturated world with every kind of entertainment all up in your face, simple is what breaks through the noise. So when we’re developing a campaign, we’re looking for something that’s not just creative and on strategy; we’re looking for all that in one, single-minded idea. Something brilliantly simple to cut through the clutter.

Max is my brilliantly simple. One great kid. One, not two. One.

Yet here I am about to double and shag shit up. Two? What is this twoness? It’s so… twoey… It’s so… complicated. One was so neat and compact and simple. TWO is so EW.

My befuddlement is not about having to do twice the work, or having twice the expense. It’s about the idea of it. I got used to one, one is all I know, and now I can’t quite see how this… this TWO… is possible.

Most of you probably have two kids already. And most of you had them close together, so you never stopped to think if you wanted to do this again, or if you should. Not saying having your kids close together was thoughtless, but apparently I like to take a moment (or half a decade) to decide if I want to rip my mooncup vessel to shreds for a second time.

I took five years to think about it, or not think about it, really. Five years of ONE. One son. One child. One twin bed. One small fork on the table. One small pair of rubber boots in the porch. One is neat. One is simple. One wasn’t the loneliest number. One was my number. One was everything and everything was one.

Staring into the baby browns of one child for five years, your heart and mind start to think he can be the only one, the only possible fruit of your loins. There simply can be no more. One boy was all there was and could ever be. We had made this one great person. There couldn’t possibly be another one. Another face to adore? Another pair of hands to hold? Another head of hair to comb? It just could not be.

In the wake of a couple breast cancer scares in the family, the surgeon had told me to have at least one child and breastfeed from both breasts. Check, check! I had had the one child. I had breastfeed that one mouth. I had experienced childbirth, even wrote a book about it. This was enough. This was more than enough.

And yet there will be another. Another face. A different face! Made inside my body just like last time, but different. A second person who could be the exact opposite of Max, yet I can only imagine a carbon copy of him. To be loved by us, just like last time and just as much, so I’m told. It’s true, but I don’t believe it, not yet. I can’t wrap my head around it. And maybe I won’t till he/she is lying in my arms, and Max is sitting next to us so I know for sure it’s not him shrunk back down.

The greatest slap from the universe here, of course, would be to not go from one to two, but from one to THREE. I’m having an early ultrasound on Thursday to make sure there’s just one sucker up in these guts. I am so bulbous for a mere 15 weeks, my OBGYN friend thinks it may be twins. (Or a giant fibroid.) Um, no. Three is a crowd. Three is for little pigs and blind mice and amigos. I cannot do three, because I cannot comprehend three. I can’t comprehend two! I’ll take GIANT FIBROID for $300 please Alex.

Talking to My Son About Everything Under the Sun.

Before I became a mom, I thought “talking to your kids” meant talking to your teenagers, about drugs and STIs and stuff. But when Max was just a toddler, I realized the talking needed to start much earlier. These were the “wet clay years”, when I could start instilling in him some of the most important lessons in life. He’s only five, but in a time when all the talk is bigotry, bullying, dieting, sexting, and twerking, perhaps I should have started sending him messages in utero.

I talk to him about body parts. Vaginas, penises, breasts, oh my! I try to use the real terms. I grew up calling penises “dicky birds”, which makes zero sense. Good luck flying with that baggage.

We talk about babies. He knows they grow in mommies’ bellies and drink milk from our breasts. And soon enough, he’ll know they bust headlong out of our vaginas.

We talk about how girls can marry girls and boys can marry boys like it ain’t no thing, ‘cause it ain’t.

We talk about how girls can be firemen, and boys can be nurses. Anyone can be anything, and play with anything – no matter which section of the toy store the drones put it in. So he grows up with all the options, not just the manly, blue ones. And so he never becomes a guy who holds back the gals.

We talk about beauty, but not really. One of our mantras: It’s okay to be handsome but it’s way more important to be kind.

We talk about death. Everyone dies. They get old, or hurt, or sick like Poppy Jim. I tell him some people believe they go to heaven when they die. He likes that idea. I assure him I’m not going anywhere for a long time, and neither is he.

We talk about God and Jesus – how some people believe, and some people don’t. And others believe in Allah, and the Buddha, and all kinds of things really, all over the world. And some people just aren’t sure about any of it, and it’s perfectly okay to be unsure (phew) – about this, or anything else. Nobody has all the answers.

Of course, most of our conversations are about poop and farts and Indiana Jones. And I’ve also been known to impart wisdoms like playing too many video games will make you go blind. But for the most part, whatever he asks me in this life, I will give him an honest answer. As honest as his expanding mind can handle.

I talk to five-year-old Max about everything so that, hopefully, 15-year-old Max will be an open-minded, tolerant young man who’ll come to me about anything. He’ll know nothing is off limits with Mom. And I’ll be able to help him. Something I can’t do if I’m in the dark.

So if you think your kids are too young to hear about vaginas and penises and gender and drugs and religion and death, hey – it’s just the truth, man. And if you don’t tell them about it, someone else will, sooner than you think. Why not get there first?

 

Unhappy Mother’s Day, Hallmark.

So you didn’t buy a card for Mom for Mother’s Day. GOOD. It’s about time you showed her what a smart kid she raised and never buy her a greeting card ever again.

Card companies make a killing (and not just when someone dies), with a card for every occasion at three to six bucks a pop. Birthdays. Valentine’s Day. Mother’s Day. Father’s Day. Graduation Day. Garbage Day. Doris Day. Brother got a vasectomy? There’s a card for that. It reads “Snip Snip Hooray!” Friend got her period? There’s a card for that too: “Yay, you’re not pregnant.”

In 2013, Hallmark made $3.9 billion, a good portion from cards. But…IT’S PAPER, MAN. Mass-produced, folded paper with at least a 300% mark-up. That’s a rip-off right up there with movie theatre popcorn. And in 48 hours, the card is facedown with the eggshells and orange peels.

It’s a complete waste of money but a custom we never question. A gift with no card? How uncivilized! Maybe a couple occasions warrant a store-bought card, and I ain’t knockin’ those local handmade beauties (e.g. NortonsCoveStudio.com) that you just gotsta frame. But, Easter cards? Seriously? If I ever buy an Easter card, I’m sending it straight to Jesus.

Why not make a card for Mom on Mother’s Day, or for every occasion really? You know, a one-of-a-kind card she might actually keep. Ain’t nobody got no time for that, right? You’ve barely got time to lick the envelope. But look, all you need is five minutes. My husband once made me a Valentine’s Day card on a Kleenex. It said: “I want to tissue you all over.” It’s easier than you think. Mom got a sense of humour? Deadly gear. Take a sheet of paper, fold it in half, write “Thank You” on the front, and on the inside write “for shooting my big fat head out of your baby cannon.” Too far? Fine, write your own. All you need is one sweet or funny line. (Ask Google for help.) If Mom expected more from you, she’d have left you on a church step long ago. And guys – if your kids are little, don’t buy a card for Baby Mama at the store, you idiot. Give them a piece of paper and a freakin’ crayon. Help them trace around their tiny hands, and she’s putty in yours. Then take the five bucks you saved on the card and invest it in a less shitty gift.

Hallmark’s not all bad. They make nice ads. They employ 11,000 people. They make same-sex marriage cards. They make cards that record personal greetings so people can be haunted by your voice when you’re dead.

But they won’t be getting my money much. Unless the card plays “Funky Cold Medina”, or has cheese in it, or is a portal to Benedict Cumberbatch’s bedroom, nuh-uh.

Hey Mom, remember that macaroni card I made you when I was a kid? I’m much more sophisticated now. One word: penne.

 

A version of this article previously appeared in The Overcast: Newfoundland’s Arts and Culture Newspaper. www.TheOvercast.ca

The Mother’s Day Ungift

When a child is little and thinks three nickels is more than one quarter, Dad decides on the gift for Mom. That’s the way it goes until he’s old enough to make his own money selling smokes behind the school. Someone’s gotta help Simple Jack. When Max was two, he picked a flower from the garden and brought it in to surprise me. It smelled like onions. Because it was an onion.

Some dads leave it up to the little knuckleheads and buy whatever they say. Last year for my birthday, Andrew asked Max, “If you had money and could buy Mommy anything you want, what would you buy her?” “Lipstick!” he said, within seconds. Remind me not to make this kid the executor of my estate. “So, son, your mother has lost her marbles and needs to go live somewhere else. You have lots of money so you can put her anywhere you like. Where would you like to send her?” “How about out back in the shed?” SON OF A. He wanted to get me lipstick. So I got lipstick.

This year for my birthday, he said he wanted to buy me…wait for it, wait for it…make-up. THE FUCK. It was cute I guess. I mean, it would have been cuter had Max wanted to give me a pen*, because I’m a writer. Or a book, because I like to read. But no, I got cosmetics. Clearly, I am a mother of depth and substance.

Last year for Mother’s Day, Andrew picked the gift. Which you’d think would be a good thing, since Max would have dropped mad stacks on mascara and miracle mousse. But no. With hubby dearest at the helm of the gift-buying ship, I received a trolling motor for a canoe. His canoe. DROWN.

This is what you call an ungift. A gift someone gives you that’s really meant for them. A gift for them, disguised as a gift for you. Like the husband who buys a 60-inch flat-screen for “family movie night”. Oh how thoughtful, honey. Pass me the remote so I can turn this bad boy to channel LIES! You know what he bought that mammoth for. The NHL, the NFL, and the PORN.

Meanwhile back at the ranch of deceit… “Happy Mother’s Day, babe. It’s a trolling motor for a canoe, so we can go canoeing as a family more often!” MY ASS. But look, I admit, I pulled this shit once or twice. Back in high school, I bought a new Celine Dion cassette tape for my friend Angie, and before I gave it to her I took it out of the plastic and taped it off, made a copy of it, whatever we called doing that back in the dark ages. DICK MOVE. But I was 12 or something, give me a break bah. I’d never do that now. Except I would. For a very good reason: REVENGE. After I got the trolling motor for Mother’s Day, I bought the husband a wok for Father’s Day. You know, a wok. The instrument of Yan. The lovechild of a pot and a frying pan, in which you fry and stir all the stirfry. I put a note on the inside: “So you can fry more fish that we catch in our motorized canoe. You’re welcome.”

And we lived happily ever after or something like that. This year I’m expecting either a hockey helmet, a fishing rod, or a 22-year-old Asian woman in a thong.

* A pen is a device used for writing with the hand. Ink is transferred from the pen onto paper by pressing gently on the tip.

You Are Five Years Old Today.

When you were born, I counted your fingers. Five on each hand (phew). Your nails were thin and delicate — and sharp! We had to put socks on your hands to keep you from scratching your eyes out.

2897_100683194687_446992_nYour knuckles were tiny dimples. Your hands were so new, with so many things yet to be touched and held. So many buttons to press, and puppy tails to pull, and rocks to throw in the ocean, and noodles to navigate into your mouth.

DSCN1007Eyes closed, you wrapped five perfect digits around my index finger and squeezed tight, trusting me blindly with your life.

And today, the number of years you’ve lived so far is the same as the number of fingers on that hand. You’ve had five years of gripping handlebars, holding ice cream cones, and flipping pages in storybooks. Five years of squishing clay, pushing trains, and yes, picking your nose.

This past year, you learned to hold a hockey stick too. We watched you go from pushing an orange skate-aid to speeding down the ice – and wiping out at the end, of course. Stopping is a skill yet to be mastered. When ice hockey season concluded, you started playing floor hockey. You scored three goals at your first lesson, and later told everyone you got a “trick hat.”

You grew over three inches, according to Dad’s pencil marks on the wall of your bedroom. Holy cow, no wonder your pants are always too short. I can’t keep blaming the dryer. You’re the tallest kid at daycare. I need to buy you some new pants, pronto. We’re starting to alarm people; they think the flood is coming.

Thomas the Tank Engine and his friends have been semi-retired to Tidmouth Sheds, to make room for your Jedi training. You are learning the ways of the Force. Everything is a lightsaber: branches, pencils, spoons, and forks. (By the way, you really need to stop swinging those things near people’s eyes.)

max_MG_9279Your Thomas rubber boots have been replaced by Star Wars sneakers that light up when you walk. When I pick out your clothes in the morning, you always put the shirt back and grab a Star Wars one instead. Whatever floats your speedracer. And whatever gets you dressed on your own.

You have another hero now: Indiana Jones. Or, as you used to say, “Indy and a Chones.” You still prefer jogging pants to jeans, but you also like your tan cords because they’re the colour of Indy’s pants. I’m sure this new fascination has everything to do with your love of archaeology, and not because Indy kicks bad guy butt. You have a plastic belt from a long-lost toy that, according to you, is “Indy’s whip”. (By the way, you really need to stop flicking that thing near people’s eyes.)

Your favourite songs are “C is for Cookie” by Cookie Monster, “ABC-DEF-GHI” by Big Bird, and Wavin’ Flag by K’naan. (No joke.) But let’s face it: your favourite musician is John Williams. You hum the theme songs for Stars Wars and Indiana Jones all day long. What can I say, you’re one classy kid.

Thomas is not complete history yet though. He’s still on your placemat, and on your pillowcase, and in the bathtub. Sometimes you go downstairs where we’ve stored your old toys to have one more chug around the track. The other day, you told me you met a guy whose name was Thomas. “That’s silly, right Mom?” All these years, you didn’t realize Thomas is a name for a person too.

You’ll go anywhere and talk to anyone. You’re an adventurous chap. But heights are not your favourite. You’ve yet to venture to the top of the tunnels at McDonald’s. And when I told you about the ladder you’d have to climb on the fire truck, you quickly changed your future career from fireman to policeman. You can be either of those things, son. But just so you know – Mom’s coming with you. Don’t argue with me. You may be five but I’m still the boss.

Whenever we part ways for the day, there’s an onslaught of affection that goes something like this: “Love ya. Love ya to the universe. See ya. Love ya. See ya. Love ya.” And then you open the door again and shout it across the driveway, since there was obviously time for a little more of that sweet action.

Frozen food is your favourite. Frozen anything, really. Last week when you were in the driveway playing, I peeked out the window to see you scraping frost off the car windshield with your hand, then licking it.

You want your hair to be “flat and not bright” so the kids at daycare don’t laugh at your mop-top. But they don’t mean any harm. They adore you. They shout “Max is here! Max is here!” as soon as you arrive. I won’t let you conform just to blend in. Your hair is unique. YOU are unique. And one day you’ll understand what a wonderful thing that is.

You are contented with simple things. When I told you we were getting a new car, you sighed, “But why? I like our old car.” When we were trying to decide what to do for your birthday party, you were excited to watch a movie at home and have cake with your family. You couldn’t have been more thrilled if I had proposed an Ewok parade in your honour.

But I wouldn’t call you humble exactly. You like to win, every time. At soccer, you like to make sure the other kids know the score: “I got FOUR goals, and you only got TWO, right?” When I slide down a chute while playing Chutes and Ladders with you, you cackle a little too maniacally for my liking. We’ll have to work on the whole humility thing.

You’re still not a fan of water. If people heard the squeals coming from the bathroom when I’m washing your hair, they’d think I was making toddler pie. Yesterday I said you needed to take swimming lessons. You said, “No thanks, I already know how to swim.” Clearly you don’t need lying lessons.

You’re a very thorough dresser. Before you leave the house, you must have your hat on, hood up, mittens on, coat zipped up all the way, bootstraps fastened in perfect symmetry, and, of course, sunglasses on. No exceptions. It’s spring now and you’re still bundled up like you’re about to climb Everest.

You love soup.

You cheer for the Habs. (Thank/blame Dad for that when you’re older.)

You like to rhyme. I say a word and then you say a word that rhymes with it, but you seem to favour the letters B and F. So I’ve had a bit of fun with that, I confess.

You never use the word “girly”, except when you run and tell me you heard someone say it. I am raising a feminist. Fist pump.

You are rarely sick and strong as an ox. It’s probably all that broccoli. We had a snowstorm a few weeks ago, and when we got home at the end of the day you took your little shovel and cleared every speck of snow off the deck. My hero.

You think body parts are hilarious. Last week you told me my boobs were chubby and my butt was bouncy. I’m going to go ahead and take this as a compliment. One night last week when we were lying in bed, you whispered, “Let’s talk about Dad’s stinky butt.” So we did.

You know your mom’s book “has bad words in it.” But miraculously, you never say anything naughty. When I accidentally say “crap” or “stupid”, you say, “Bad word, Mommy.” Darn it, you are so strict.

Dad found a bunch of boogers on the back of the couch when we moved it yesterday. A nice complement to the ones I found on your bedroom wall last week. Well done.

You are an X-Box addict. “Just one more level.” Dad and I threaten to throw the thing in the garbage at least once a day, but you call our bluff every time. Dad and I are stupid people. (Yes, I know. Bad word, Mommy.)

You’re having fun in your monthly Kinderstart class. One day you had to bring a photo of your favorite animal. You brought a snap of Splash and corrected the teacher promptly when she called Splash a “he”. “ACTUALLY, it’s a girl,” you asserted. Then you had to make an animal with a paper bag. You made an alien.

You’ll be going to school for real in September. I know you’re going to be fine, because I know you. You’re outgoing, friendly, and curious. I wish I could be a fly on the wall, watching your eyes light up as you learn about earthworms and constellations. Dad can’t wait to help you with your homework.

You know all your letters and can count to 100. You still need help to write them sometimes. You can sign your name like it’s nobody’s business. But anything requiring more than three letters is absolute torture. Thank goodness we didn’t name you Bartholomew.

Man oh man. Five years old. Look at you. That face. That smile…I can see every tooth in your head.

You gave me your hand last night so I could clip your fingernails, and I remembered how you wrapped those fingers around my mine when you were a baby. Your hand is bigger now, and busier – building and testing and exploring the world, all on your own. Every day for the past year, I’ve dropped you off at daycare and you’ve thrown those hands around my neck to hug me, then pushed my face to the side to kiss my cheek (and avoid the dreadful lipstick), and waved to me vigorously as I drive away. But when I leave you in the Kinderstart class now, you don’t even look back to say goodbye. You’re too busy examining new toys and meeting new friends. I guess this is how it goes. You’re letting go a little, loosening your grip. And so must I. You don’t need me like you used to, and that’s how it’s supposed to be. You’re a big boy now, ready to go off and wrap your hands around the world.

But guess what? You may not need me so much anymore, but I need you. And I don’t just mean for writing material. So don’t be getting any funny ideas out there, mister.

You’re more than ready for school, because I see now that you were a genius from the beginning. You tricked me, outsmarted me, turned the tables on me completely, and I never saw it coming. You started out with your little hand wrapped around my finger. Now, it’s my whole life wrapped around yours.

Happy 5th birthday, my big, big boy. Everything is going to be great.

max_MG_8861

max_MG_9252

 

 

 

More Grody Googlers

It’s that time of the month again. Not that time, the other time. When I check out Google Analytics to learn some fascinating things about the people visiting this here website. Like how many of you dropped by (about 2,000 over the past four weeks), your average age (about 30), the counties you’re living in (Top 4: Canada, US, UK, and…Indonesia?) and how very TWISTED AND PERVERTED AND GROSS YOU ARE. You make me look like Mother freakin’ Theresa. Although…the content of my blog is what’s directing you sickos here, so let’s just forget about it.

Here are some of the search terms that brought the world’s weirdest wankers to this blog. Remember, I am simply cutting and pasting here. So don’t be sending me scripture or soap to cleanse my filthy soul. YOU did this. I hope to god most of you never found what you were looking for:

mom cock

big balls

a new crack whore 2014

ass granny panty

aunt vicky in the kitchen anal sex pics

bengali breast nipple and vagina video

big butt moms

black stallion bedroom tonic

cutie eating shit

girls, ever felt your dad’s testicles after he passed out?

dirty old pussy amelia ohio

grannies in loincloth

i jerked off to jem and the holograms

i saw my mother shitting

hamster mother best friend

not breastfeeding but sometimes milk comes out when my husband sucks during romance

sexy granny in satin fullback

shirley temple sailor suit

slutty tonka trucks

weird fuckers at the grocery store

naked grannies sitting on recliner

Red Hairing

In Corsica, if you pass a redhead in the street you’re supposed to spit and turn around. For good luck or to ward off evil, I’m not sure.

When it comes to being a ginger, I’m not sure about anything. And no wonder—the world has been screwing with us for centuries. The Germanic peoples called us witches and burned us at the stake. Queen Elizabeth’s fiery mane made red hair all the rage. The Nazis prevented us from mating and making more freckled freaks. Rita Hayworth made the world want to finger our ringlets.

Rita Hayworth

Rita Hayworth

So, like, do you love us or do you hate us? Is red symbolic of evil and hatred, or love and passion? Make up your goddamn mind, world. We’ve not only inherited a recessive gene; we’ve also been handed down hundreds of years of mind games.

We may not be buried alive anymore, but we’re still the oddballs. Less than one percent of the human population is red-haired. When we get older, of course, we realize being unique is great. But when we’re young, we just want to be like everybody else, and unfortunately being ginger is a giant flashing disco light on your melon.

Last week after bath time, I dried Max’s ginger jewfro and he looked in the mirror. “Noooooo! I want it to be flat! And not bright!”

“Why would you want that?” I thought of all the folks paying big bucks for dye jobs and products that “volumize.”

“I don’t want the kids at daycare to laugh at me.”

They get a kick out of his hair sometimes, which is often askew. They’re not being mean. They’re being kids. Hair is a funny thing. My husband’s back hair, for example.

But I get it. I’ve had people talking about my red hair for 35 years. I’ve heard it all: Coppertop, Rusty, Raggedy-Ann, Little Orphan Annie, and everyone’s favourite—Carrot-top. People tell me my hair is beautiful now. Feisty, fiery-haired gals like Joan from Mad Men and Merida from Brave even have blondes wishing for the ginge tinge. But when I was a little girl, I wasn’t sure if my hair was good or bad. Was it a compliment to be likened to a singing orphan or a root vegetable? And why must they always talk about it? What was the big hairy deal? So I think I understand what Max wants: Less talk about hair. More talk about saving the galaxy from the evil Sith Lord.

I can’t stop people from talking about his hair. And I don’t want to, really. Being unique comes with good and bad, and we must all learn to deal. Not every comment is cruel. When someone politely says Max’s hair looks like carrots, he should thank them—carrots are noble and delicious. I could flatten his hair to deter not-so-nice remarks, maybe bleach his tips a little, conform to the superficial world that… WHAT THE EFFIN’ EFF? Hell no, mofo.

Listen, Max. Life is not a walk in the park. It’s a scavenger hunt. When some hater says something mean about your hair, scratch them off your list. You just found another one of the world’s stupid people. Fist bump, my little ginja ninja.

This article appeared in the April edition of The Overcast, Newfoundland’s arts and culture newspaper. Check it out online at theovercast.ca

I cannot live in this world.

Relax. This is not my suicide note.

I turned 36 yesterday. Things were supposed to be different by now. I was supposed to have a couple kids, instead of one kid making friends with mannequins at the mall.

mannequin brotherOur house was supposed to be bigger. Our debt was supposed to be smaller. I should have seen Europe by now. Italy, at least. I should know how to cook more than four things. I should have read more books. I mean, I know I wrote a book. That was something. But I can’t shake this feeling that there is so much more to do, and not a lot of time to do it.

Sometimes I wish I lived in a vacuum, be one of those people whose thoughts rarely venture beyond what’s for supper, what shirt goes with these pants, and what time The Bachelor comes on. I don’t know, maybe if I stopped looking around I’d see less shit. But that doesn’t mean the shit wouldn’t be there. It’s everywhere. Shit on top of shit, with a side order of shiitake mushrooms drizzled in shit sauce. Missing airliners in the ocean. Sweet doggies left out in the cold. Slut-shaming. Gay-hating. Cancer, cancer, cancer. Rape, rape, rape. North Korean men forced to have Kim Jong-un’s haircut. Women having to “lean in”, and, of course, stay lean. And for some shit icing on the shit cake, Ben Affleck is going to play Batman. What the eff, man. Everywhere I look, I see a hundred million things that make me want to shake my fist at the moon and yell WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK. I mean seriously, Universe, it’s 2014. Are you kidding me right now? I cannot live in this world.

But see, I can live in this world. Because my Max is here. And he’s awesome. And he’s going to help change some of the shit, even if it’s just a little bit, long after my saggy old ass goes tits-up.

I mean, look at that face. So full of possibility…

funny face maxand promise…

crazy faceand pita. And not at all like a serial killer from a horror movie.

pita face maxLook out, world. Because…THIS GUY.

photo