the chicks dig the tinger

On occasion, after a night of indulgence, I wake to find either I have scratched the thin layer of film on my eye, or – and I am guessing here – something minute has lodged itself beneath its oval, ocular frame.  It moves back and forth, swishing if you will, dynamically changing from mild annoyance to out right anxious fuckery.  I am guessing it happens only after a solid night if imbibing due to my ability to fall asleep awkwardly, and thereby laying my bald, dry eyeball on random bothers. Sure some may call it “passing out” but to me it’s just a comfortable settling in after a long day of work.  Either way, the bother is there, and the incessant blinking is no solution.  Wait, can’t a buy a solution? (play on words for you slow people)

It’s Friday.  It has been a very busy work social week which I knew was coming but was still not prepared for.  I did the kiss at night asleep and the kiss goodbye asleep in the morning to my kids all week.  I am not a fan of this ardor.  My boys are like a drug.  If I go too long without them I start to feel less like myself.  And, admittedly, the atavistic feeling occasionally pricks on freedom, but mostly I feel like I am walking through food courts without my wallet or I am missing the third and fourth toe of my left foot.

I did have a full on hung over barrage of cuddles and farty wrestles this morning, so, like any junkie, I feel somewhat sated with the love.  But, with a solo trip to a farm this evening, I will once again miss the ritualistic Friday night movie/Wii/Ipod Touch/easy dinner hanging out that I am longing for.  I am going to hang out with two brothers that I have known for 40 years.  Yes I am almost 42 meaning we are the offspring of now estranged parental friends.  Both of these brothers make me laugh.  They are of a different ilk than my crowd of thoroughbreds, but their confidence, quick smiles and occasionally salemensesque smarm are a constant source of warm feeling for me.  We have been trying to do this night for a long time, so, even while swallowing the occasional night after bile, I am looking forward to seeing them, their 4 wonderful girls and their god parents, my parent’s friends, for a night of drinking and telling lies.

They are also really really good at backgammon.  The betting kind.  Which I am dying to play.  Could be a long expensive night.

Liking Fridays is a pretty easy thing to do.  So is making ridiculously obvious statements.  For whatever reason, wife being away, impending conference of importance, overarching fear of success, I went to bed too late and woke up too early.

Now when Steph is away I am militantly organized to ensure the single parent disruption is kept to a minimum.  Snacks are prepped, breakfast fruit chopped, lunch ideas varied and abundant, spirit day clothes chosen and laid out – I take pride in running a placid morning routine to eliminate the potential where is mom tempest.  The boys deserve the smoothness.

So when the fucking raccoons managed to pry open the corner of the green been to pull all the rotting goodies out (including the fetid Alice shit) and spread it out all over our joint laneway, my plans for a stress free morning came to a screeching and muttering vermin murder under my breath halt.

But I get it – that’s life chimichanga, you prepare for everything else except for the things that accidentally happen.  Whether it’s strategic planning at work that one c-suite motherfucker changes with a sweep of his 50 dollar pen, or whether it’s the twitching whiskered nose of a hungry evil raccoon ripping apart last night dinner scrapings, you just can’t prepare for everything.

But it left me off.  Out of sorts.  Hands un-surgeon like.  Yawny and twitchy and I don’t drink coffee anymore.  A couple of really solid conference calls ironed out the morning, but the anticipation of the evening festivities – a couple of pints with some old mates – have me chewing the anxiety cheek and wondering what metaphoric raccoon lay waiting around the next corner.

Alas, and sadly, it will pass with a pint.  Not a crutch but a welcome relief after a challenging week.

At least I started another blog – it’s strangely cathartic.

The scholastic journey from the Ledbury Park catch area to the Bedford Park catch area was not vast in geography, so when Steph and I decided to attend Bedford Park 100^th anniversary celebration as parents to two shiny new students, we were basically testing the community waters, to see where a couple of friendly faces could fit into this new environment.  Were we scared or nervous?  Did we ask these questions out loud?  Not really, we live next door to a family with four boys who have been attached to Bedford for the previous six years.  So basically we had an in.  We decided that we would attend regardless of our neighbour’s intent, but it was nice to have one of the cool kids chipping away at the occasionally icy veneer of North Toronto parents.  Or maybe they weren’t icy and I was gregariously over friendly, I can never tell if I am being too forthcoming and people are being normal, or if I being congenial and people are acting like snots.  It is quite the tightrope I tiptoe.

So, the food was ok, local restaurants provided food stations and we were each offered one drink ticket to help lubricate the meet and greet.  It cost a bit too much – $50 each – for my liking but, it does go to the Bedford Park Parents Association which we now belong, so we sucked it up.  Most of the mingling took place in the sweaty gym, and in hindsight, on such a beautiful night; a tent in the field could have classed the shindig right up.  Perhaps I can get involved next year – I am no saviour, nor do I play one on TV, but maybe this is the community based role that I have been longing for.

Even though I keep waiting for the rug to be pulled, by our landlord (eek, you rent?) who will realize the flattening real estate market and want to sell the house after we made it all pretty and curb appealing.  I can do nothing about this.  Nothing except lie awake at night wringing my hands thinking about having to move areas again, thereby increasing the odds my eldest son will hate me by the age of 14, or as I like to call them, the fuck you I’m going to try smoking years. 

The best and worst part of the evening was the invitation to the join a number of parents at a beautiful home on the cusp of Wanless Park after the school throw down ended at 10pm.  The best part?  These people were lovely.  Yes they were curious about these new entrants to their relatively tight knit group, so it’s not like we all hugged it out and exchanged friendship bracelets.  But they were engaged, eager to hear our story, complimentary of our ability to befriend our neighbours so quickly and always enthusiastic to hear about ours, and talk about their kids.  So the downside?   Most of them are loaded, which is only a downside because of my own shackle of insecurity and petty envy.  I guarantee these people work hard for their money and make tons of sacrifices on all sides of the parental spectrum (less time with kids, more time at work, less things for them, more things for kids) so my feelings are my own and reflect my ongoing struggle for self worth.  It will pass with familiarity or it won’t and I will go back to my other hundred friends (passive aggressive comment alert).

The other great part of the night was the house band.  I say that ironically because they busted out such contemporary classics like Twist and Shout and Mustang Sally.  All to a crowd with a median age of 41.  It was painful and was quickly forgotten once the DJ started spinning some funky songs that even our kids would like.

So I guess the big question is did I dance?

I did not.  Next time.  Next year.

Next shuffin’ opportunity.

In an attempt to let my brain leak out a bit of creative muck, I have started another blog.  I have no idea how often I will write, what I will write about, the length of the individual posts or how often I will shock, frustrate, embarrass or humour my potential readers.  All I know is that I reach the tender age of 42, I remain a bit lost.  The recent 98lbs weight loss did not take my life and turn into a shining pink beacon of fresh hope.  I did not think it would.

Although secretly (and lazily) I want some suspender wearing huckster to jump out from behind a bus stop smoking a big cigar and offer me job writing comedic first person essays for 10 bucks a word.

“Hey skinny!” He would say, liking the cut of my jib. “You look like just the svelte man I am looking for to craft me up some yuks and giggles, how about you hop into this sports car and let me take you to your new office?  All I can offer you is piles of money and surround you with beautiful women who are just less funny and smart than you?”

And scene… And that joke is getting old.

So where is the affecting change on my life resolution now? (editor’s note:  That was my only 2011 resolution).  Ok, before the pity violins come screeching out, I get it, I lost a ton of weight, with help sure, but still, 98lbs is still an accomplishment, no matter how the weight is lost.  So yes, I affected change in my life for the better.  I am healthier and skinnier version of the man I was last summer  (remember him? All huffy and puffy, baggy shirts bordering on muumuu status, nary a olive nor finger full of gravy left sitting untouched after a dinner.  Miss him?  Yeah, me neither), but I still float through waves of incomplete, motivation still hovering around the halfway point.

I preach to Hud all the things I know I should do for myself.  Do more than you’re supposed to.  Just enough will not cut it.  Just enough is simply lazy.  Don’t sit at the back, drive the bus.  I could go on.  Ok I will.  Own your effort.  Do the hard stuff first.  All the parental/life coach things that I am sure a nine year old boy is ignoring.

Really what I should be doing is saying all this stuff to the mirror.  And I would but I can’t stop blowing myself kisses.

Lets call this post one.