Midlife Makeunder

It happens to all of us at some point in time.  That feeling of panic when you realize your wallet or purse is missing.  It’s the same feeling a high school kid gets when his girlfriend tells him she’s pregnant.  Its the same feeling you get when swimming in Australia, when a shark fin appears nearby and you are good distance away from shore.  Perhaps this is a little much, just a touch melodramatic.  I’m prone to such behaviour when set upon by a first-world problem.  Life can be challenging and I like to whine about it, like the fair-weather soldier I am.

Your girlfriend is WHAT???

This afternoon started out like any other Saturday.  Early to bed, late to rise.  Around noon, it was time for my midday kickstart, courtesy of a popular downtown coffee house, which shall remain nameless.  After hanging about the java stop with a friend, for an hour or so, talking about issues such as the Elliot Wave as applied to social mood, or whether or not barista was a relative of George Hamilton, based on her tan; I decided it was time to get back to things more productive.

Like this...but peddling coffee.

The rest of the afternoon was spent writing.  After a few hours, I decided I would be proactive and do my grocery shopping today rather than do it on Sunday, like your average, garden-variety, bachelor chump.  As I readied myself, grabbing my car keys and doing a spot-breath check (why this matters, is because the grocery store is full of a whole cast of eligible or near-eligible ladies; the difference being virtually indistinguishable to me) and I suddenly realize my wallet is missing.  To make a long story the length of my last relationship, my wallet was decidedly “incognito”.

To clarify - if this guy has my wallet, he is NOT Curt Incognito

Rather than bemoan purchases lost, I made the gut decision to cancel everything.  Cards, driver’s license…you name it, I’m replacing it.  This is of little import.  What does matter is how to operate with what I like to call “secondary protocol accessories”.  I call it secondary protocol because that is the only time most of this stuff sees the light of day.  I don’t know about you, though I tend to misplace things.  More often than not, they show back up. Unfortunately, I lose them often enough that I’ve chosen to keep my “back-ups” altogether, in one neat, tidy place.

The real challenge is using this stuff on a Saturday night.  Most obviously, is my passport in lieu of a driver’s license.  Instead of being embarrassed, I keep it slung around my neck, in the “nifty” little travel pouch that I bought to keep it safe “while travelling through Europe”.

This has a three-fold effect on the opposite sex.  First, you are blissfully uncaring of the opinion of others, how else could you possibly walk around with a mini man-satchel, sitting in the center of your chest, like Ironman’s Arc Reactor?  Second, you’ve been to Europe, which mean you’re all kinds of sophist-a-micated and what-not.  This goes over very well.  Lastly,  you’ve lost all your I.D. and money, which shows your vulnerability and potential need of “a woman’s touch”, if only for a brief period.  This will appeal to women who tend to get “Florence Nightingale Syndrome”.  Careful with this one, as you may end up with a Kathy Bates type, hacking off your foot, just to keep you in close proximity.

"No, It's fine. I can totally stay. Tell you what, close up that stab wound you just gave me and I'm in for the long haul, promise!

A couple of key things to remember if you do venture out on Saturday with your back-ups:

1. Your keys.

2.  Your phone.

3. Her name.

4. Not to leave the back-ups at her place.

5.  Enough cash for cab fare, or it could potentially be an extremely long walk of shame.  Unless you really like your new friend, in which case, save enough money for two “Lumberjack Slams” at Denny’s, on Sunday morning.

Lastly, remember not to judge yourself.  After all, you’ve had a really tough weekend, having to deal with a boatload of personal loss.  You deserve a little bit of time free from worry, free from stress.  The real trick is to remember the word “Free”, as you’ll be without your plastic.

Have a tip-top weekend!

There are times in life when words just don’t do a situation justice. Can you remember a moment, where you were just so scared, angry or embarrassed, that there was no word to describe it?  Perhaps there was a time when you witnessed something so funny, awkward or downright vomit inducing, that it left you standing there, mentally constipated, with no literary Ex-Lax in sight.  Allow me to offer a solution in the form of the “Portmanteau”.

The Portmanteau is a fancy, French term that more or less, means a “word sandwich”.  It’s when you take at least two words and squeeze them together to give yourself a much more entertaining description of things.  Here is a small taste of my portmanteau “glossary”:

1. Brenvy – What I felt towards my younger brother growing up, as I lost virtually every Nintendo game we ever played.

2. Brintendo –  The state of “unusability” the Nintendo came to be in, after it received one too many sore loser kicks from me.  Brintendo also came to be known by us, as the term used for playing outside; you know, like the Hutterite children do.

Who am I kidding? The old school Nintendo never broke down, it just needed a "time out" occasionally. Thank you Mario, thank you.

3. Granpire – The geriatric man or woman that is in a relationship with a member of the opposite sex that is less than half their age.  As in,  ”Chuck liked being a Granpire, until his girlfriend received her driver’s license”.

Contrary to popular belief, Granpires only stay outdoors until it's time for Jell-O to be served.

4. Manticipation –  The feeling a guy gets when he realizes he might have sex.

5. Manpology – The thing a guy tries to offer a woman, post coitus, due to a great deal of “Manticipation”.  As in, “Please accept my Manpology, that has NEVER happened before”.

My Bad.

6. Trynanced – Being highly leveraged with bad debt, that has allowed you to purchase items, which are quickly becoming worthless, in a misguided effort to try and impress other people who couldn’t care less.  As in, “Curt didn’t care if he was Trynanced, now he had the iPad2, which meant he would fit in at Starbucks.”  Also known as “Poornanced”.

7. seX-Box – When you realize your love life has become a simple matter of trying to “out-do” your partner in the sack.

8. Mindividual – A person who does the absolute least possible to stick out.

9. Exflammation-  A condition where the afflicted individual will inexplicably get a burning sensation in their private parts and a feel great need to bathe, upon any chance meeting with an ex-girlfriend or ex-boyfriend.  Although similar in symptoms, it is not to be confused with Gonorrhea.  Or marriage, at the 10 to 15 year stage.

10. Clappy – The people who always seem to clap uncontrollably whenever they are happy about something.

11. Doppelbanger – The exact version of yourself, except a die hard Motley Crue fan.

Yeah, but he looks totally different on Turtleneck Tuesday...

12. Scuttlebuttocks – To talk about a well-formed derriere.  As in “Wow…Tiffany sure has a perfect backside. At least, that’s the scuttlebuttocks.”

13. Bropourri – When a young woman finds herself unwittingly encircled by a group of guys while at a club.  Also known as being “Mencircled”.

Meh, I've had bigger.

14. Spendgrift – Somebody who knows how to save their money by seducing others out of theirs.  Spendgrifts are often seen in the company of Granpires.

Carl and Tony spent their whole lives trying to find that "special someone". Their WHOLE lives.

15. Goondoggle – A group of meatheads, very clearly up to no good.

16.  Helmutt- What you feel both you and your head look like, after a bad haircut.

17. Discomboobulate – An age old skill women use, to distract a man by showing off  their “Chesticles”.

18. Bestitched – To be the unwilling recipient of something homemade from an aging relative.

Umm...yeah, it's perfect. What are those? Candy canes? Oh, that's swell.

19. Lollyhag – A woman who spends all day complaining, especially about how she has no time to do anything.

20. Fistibluffs – A point where two men look like there going to move to blows, only to realize that neither of them really want a black eye, so they just continue beaking at one another.

When somebody steps between us, you are gonna be soooo sorry...

As you can see, there are times, like at Christmas, where Aunt Mildred offers you that “knit sweater”, which is going be perfect for any “noccasion”.  This is when you begin to realize the value of a good Portmanteau.  Please feel free to offer up your own word sandwich, as this is the type of thing that makes life blisstastic.

Straight out of the gate, let me make one thing clear:  I have an amorous relationship with the Facebook, albeit even if it is a one-way street, there is deep affection.  I believe that any computer application that allows me to peer into other’s lives like the 1950′s “pervert in the tree, outside your window” can’t be a bad thing, can it? Seems harmless enough.  Let’s face it, people are nosy creatures.  Curiosity did kill the cat…right after it finished impregnating humanity.

"Well, at least I'm not the cat."

Now that we’re clear on why Facebook had initial success, let’s look at why it has had such staying power.  For as much as people like to snoop, other people like to “put it on display”.  I know, I know.  How can I say such a thing when we live in a time of such moderation and conservative moral values?  Next thing you know, women will be showing their “internet ankles” and children will be allowed to play at outdoor parks.

"Yeah Mom, it's umm, really cool. Where do I plug in my controller?"

Still, morals aside (exactly where I like them), I can’t help but notice that Facebook is creating a bunch of “pseudo-people”.  Honestly, either many of the people I know are taking some serious “creative license” with their Facebook accounts, or they suffer from multiple personality disorder  Give me a minute though, I want to go to the mirror and discuss this issue with Eduardo and Earl.

I’m back.  Eduardo agreed.  Earl didn’t even show.  He’s not exactly a people person, which may explain why he has exactly two friends on Facebook.  I digress.  It’s at this point where I believe a breakdown is needed to show how the lives of myself and my friends would look, if things played out exactly how “Facebook” makes them look like they happened.

My Typical Day – According to Facebook:

5:00 a.m. – First status update, because OMG, who needs sleep, right?  Well, look at that, it’s my Birthday!

5:10 a.m. – I am sharing my Birthday with 38 friends.  This social “netquirk” makes me seem less interesting and unique.  I am annoyed.

5:11 a.m – I rally.

5:12 a.m. – Potential crisis averted.

5:15 a.m. – Let all my friends know about 18 mile run, that I complete in record time,

"That remix was horrible."

though not before posting 20 links to Youtube, that makes up my complete “Uber-Sprint Playlist”.  I’m edgy like that.

7:03 a.m. – Mobile upload of me “working it” on the Starbucks Barista, still glistening from my run.

7:04 a.m. – Change my relationship status from “Single” to “It’s complicated”.

7:05 a.m. – Mobile upload removed by the Facebook “Gestapo”, due to “graphic content”.  Apparently there is no room on Facebook for the “free-spirited”.  Edna, you were so sweet and gentle, even if you were a touch on the “seasoned” side.  Who said liver spots can’t be sexy?  I guess the world will never know about our “de-posted” lust affair.

"Don't. It's not."

7:09 a.m. – Arrive in Jamaica, now that I am able to take a trip weekly. Thanks for expanding the limits of my reality, Facebook.  Also, the pilot knew a shortcut.

8:15 a.m. – Jell-O shots!

9:45 a.m. – Photo Bomb of me and “muh gurls” around the pool, all in the best shape of our lives, while sporting bathing attire.  Normally, this may raise eyebrows, though in Facebook world, I assume all of my friends are just ridiculously fit and predisposed to “…really, really liking spinach salad…with no dressing.  They like it a lot”.  At this time, funny glasses and finger moustaches begin to appear in photos, the same way orphaned kids migrate to “Brangelina”.  These added facial features make me the envy of my Facebook Friends, though I am not concerned with such matters because I’m too busy Salsa dancing with Catalina, or Katerina…or maybe it was Brittany.  Either way, we both “felt the earth move”.  We “Add Friend” and “Like” each other.

3:00 p.m. – Make apology for not having updated my status in so long, as I know my Facebook friends will be so worried.  I have a valid excuse for my absence though, “I’m getting married!”  Reception @ the Central Park Boathouse @ 5:00 p.m.

"Yeah, Congrats Curt..."

3:30 p.m. – Tux fittings with groomsmen – quick video upload of Trent “hamming it up” for the camera, as he walks around the Tux shop wearing “only” the top half of the tux.  Oh Trent, you’re such a joker.

3:38:10 p.m. – Walking down the aisle

3:38:15 p.m. – Catalina, or Katerina…or Brittany meets me at the end of the aisle.  I hope the minister reminds me of her name.  I mean, how embarrassing would that be?

3:38:30 p.m. – My palms are sweaty.

3:38:40 p.m. – Breath check.

3:38:42 p.m. – Catal…my soon to be wife looks so hot.  I’m so glad we “waited”.

3:51 p.m. – Wedding photos uploaded.

"It was fantastic. Best day of my life."

5:14 p.m. – Honeymoon in the Maldives!

5:38 p.m. – Upload of ultrasound photo.  Guess who’s expecting?????

Xavier let us know how he felt about the tight accommodations almost immediately.

6:06 p.m. – Cata-Britt-krina’s water just broke, about to be a Daddy folks!

6:08 p.m. – I’d like to welcome Xavier-Damian-Nikolai-Hugo-Chavez-N-Cognito into the world!

6:15 p.m. – After bagging the placenta, the hospital has “ushered” our new family out into the street.  I offer my thanks to all my friends for the congratulations on Xavier’s birth.  I realize that my new son shares my birthday with me and will forever more, hog my birthday limelight.  I am once again annoyed.

6:16 p.m. – I rally.

6:24 p.m. – Little Xavier just had his first poop.  It was so cute and unique, I just know all of my friends will love this update!

6:27 p.m – Realizing the novelty is wearing off, I offer up Xavier for trade when Cata…my wife steps out for a coffee and postpartum neighbourhood window smashing/pyro spree.  I upload a photo of little Lucifer Xavier while he sleeps.  In the photo I have pinned a note that says “will consider a 66′ Ford Mustang convertible, or perhaps my youth in trade”.

7:27 p.m. – I receive no offers.  I am annoyed.  I thought this was social net “working” not net “slouching”.  Come on people.

8:15 p.m. – My wife has returned, still holding a car door.  Not a door latch, a door.  I upload the photo.  She is annoyed.

8:15:01 p.m. – As the wife appears to be in good spirits, I say my good-byes to the better half and life-ender the apple of my eye, heading out for some well-deserved mischief with the boys!

8:15 p.m. – 2:59 a.m. – Remember to turn “Off” the Facebook “Check-In” app.  Facebook equivalent of the Dark Ages.

3:00 a.m. – Update my Facebook status in drunkenese, letting all my friends know how fantastic I am and how I resemble George Clooney in my bathroom mirror.  On second thought, maybe it is Gary Busey I look like…either way, it’s a celebrity, right?  DELETE every photo taken that evening.

Hey, I could be Nick Nolte.

This is just a small cross section of a Facebook day, I think with some solid effort, I could have crossed off a few more “life checklist” items, though I find I accomplished most of what I had set out to do.  The important thing is that others want the life that I allegedly have. Thanks Facebook, for keeping it real.

Last night, while hanging out with friends, I was introduced to the “Clik” app for my iPhone.  In the words of the app creator, it is the “amazing You tube remote that allows you to walk up to any screen with a browser, point your phone at it and instantly take control”.  Seeing as how my friend has this hooked into his home entertainment center; it was like, “Boom!”, I am the You tube video genie, selecting which music can be played, all from my cellphone.

"With a little responsibility, comes great power."

Seriously, for those people who are hardwired into their phone like Neo is to the Matrix, this app was a Godsend.  It was…at least, until a few others downloaded the app.  You see, every third Friday at my buddy Jack’s house has been deemed “Eighties Music Night”, so good or bad, we are imbibing libations to Gun’s and Rose’s “Paradise City” or “Let Your Backbone Slide” by Maestro Fresh Wes (Really, do lyrics get any better than “So many suckers on my sacroiliac, It’s like a rapsack backpack”?).

R.I.P. the music career of Maestro Fresh Wes - (October 1989 - June 1990)

Things took a turn for the Machiavellian when Tait, one member of our merry band of malcontents, decided to “unilaterally” end eighties night, via the Clik app.  One second I am “high-top deep” in the melancholic, power-ballad tones of Poison’s “Every Rose Has it’s Thorn“, when the song comes to an abrupt end, vis-a-vis Avicii’s “Levels“.  While I enjoy having my “Ear-Ports” assaulted as much as the next guy, never interrupt a man who is midway through discussing the extraordinary hotness of the eighties music video-tart.  Just saying Tait;  these women were hot, game for anything and quite obviously, as blind as the day is long.  Did you see some of the outfits these guys would wear?

The 80's Hair Band - Singlehandedly keeping Vidal Sassoon profitable.

Avicii cannot compare to these women, I don’t care how great his laser light show is.  There are only so many fist pumps he can do, before I’m once again, craving a “come-hither” look from Suzanna Hoffs, via the “Eternal Flame” video, or the sweet, feminine vulnerability of Belinda Carlisle’s “Mad About You“.

This versus...

...this. Sorry Avicii, no contest. Besides, I'm sucker for giant hoop earrings.

Tait’s decision sparked an all out “Clik War”, with Jack and Regan joining in, most songs being sampled for about ten seconds, until somebody else came up with another selection.  It was like a video yard-sale, though not in a good way.  In the end,  the whole thing, if compiled would have looked a lot like Eric Prydz’s “Call on Me” video.  While there is no arguing the “lyrical genius” of this song, I can’t help but feel as though the visuals are just a touch “overt”.

In the end, none of us were really getting our own way.  As much as we could have taken the mature route…the moral high road; instead each of us chose to find a more ridiculous song in which to “one-up” the other.  I think we maxed out somewhere between Milli Vanilli’s “Blame it on the Rain” and Justin Beiber’s…well anything by Justin Beiber is too much.  Not that the kid isn’t talented.  In the words of my friend Cory, upon first hearing Justin Bieber on the radio, “I really like this chick’s voice”.  I waited about two seconds to break it to him that those sultry tones were coming from a pubescent, Emo kid.  Thanks for the good times, Justin.

Still, androgynous vocal talent aside, this event left me thinking that I now wholeheartedly see this as a legitimate, first-world problem – Which soundtrack will take us into the future?

Since right about the time that man began procreating, he has been on the outs with women.  The message just never seemed to be delivered.  Through mating a “plethora” of National Geographic articles with an Excel spreadsheet, I believe I may have figured out what women (and men) want.  I have chosen to display the results in chart form, simply because as all ladies know, men respond to “visuals”.

Right around the time we started poking things with sharp sticks (as well as with our naughty bits) it became evident to the female gender of the species that perhaps they would have to spell it out for the guys; a few “Must-Haves” or “Deal-Breakers”, if you will.  In the beginning, a woman’s needs of her mate were simple:

As you can see, due to limited ability to communicate, women’s needs were very simple, at that time.  Over the millenia, communication developed, the world became faster and more complicated.  The modern age woman became vastly more complex than the cavewoman; so much so, that each woman would be utterly unrecognizable to the other party if they were to ever have crossed paths.  I mean, it could happen.

It would be like forcing the writers of ABC’s “Wife Swap” to work with PBS, or History TV.  Stranger things have happened.  I bet they’d call it “Hello, 9-1-1?  There is a wild, cave troll loose in my living room and I think she ate my wife!  Seriously, we need a dart gun, stat!  She’s roasting the guinea pig over an open flame on our love seat.  For the love of…the thing’s not even scotch guarded”.  The cave man version would be called: “Unnngggg, Munnaggghh!”  It wouldn’t be televised.  I digress.  Like I said, the two charts would be like comparing apples to, well whatever cave people could forage.  Here’s a little snapshot of what today’s woman needs: 

As you can see, with the way the basic needs of a woman have changed so dramatically over this great period of time, the inherent challenge for men becomes clear.  How can a man ever accomplish satisfying such a great list, seeing that needs have evolved so much?  The key to success for men, is altered auditory skills.

Nowadays, men who have not yet managed to mate (consecutively) and start a family, have fallen prey to what’s commonly referred to as the “Acute – Hearing Obsessive Listening Epidemic”.

This is a condition where the unfortunate man afflicted with Acute – Hearing Obsessive Listening Epidemic…maybe we’ll call him “A-HOLE” for short, takes every word he hears from a woman’s mouth as exactly what she means.  A-Holes  tend to have a tough time reading between the lines.

For example, when a female who is in the infancy of a relationship tells an A-hole to “jump in the lake”, she will, a little while later, find her soon to be ex-boyfriend huddled in a corner, soaking wet and shivering, perhaps still wearing water-wings.  In point of fact, women often send a layered message.  They say this:

When they are really saying this:

As you can see, the subtle differences can make a huge difference as to what is being said. An A-hole doesn’t know the difference.  I know this because I am a recovering A-hole.  It’s kind of like being forced to live in a cardboard box your whole life;  a box with no light, that is smaller than you are, steals all the covers, has mood swings you swear could be followed on a calendar and at any given time will use tears to win an argument.  I didn’t say it was a simple box, it would be more like the kind of box habitat for humanity can use to build homes with.  Either way, once “out of the box”, an A-hole must learn how to think out of it.

A good place for an A-hole to start learning how to communicate with women in advanced form is adapting all conversation to the JERK quadrant of communication:

 In more depth, the JERK method goes something like this:

Justify your actions always.  As in, “Sweetheart, I was looking at that other woman’s breasts because I can’t help but think how difficult those would be to latch onto for a newborn.  I mean, I can’t help but feel sympathy for a woman who is undoubtedly plagued with constant back problems.”

Entertain her when you’ve really gone off the rails.  I’m a big fan of the false-story redirection.  An example would be when you haven’t taken out the garbage, ask your girlfriend/wife if her sibling asked for money.  Then completely drop the subject and refuse to elaborate.  I also like the “did somebody hit your car?” redirect.  Make sure to use this one after dusk, when it would be virtually impossible to verify any damage.  This may not seem much like entertainment, though in my experience women don’t drop their panties for a guy who tries to juggle when they want to talk to you about shirking responsibilities.  Women will forgive a clever scoundrel countless times and a fool not even once.

Reject anything your female counterpart expresses on the first attempt.  This is basic negotiation.  Never accept a first offer.  Some women may balk at this.  These are the women whose husbands and boyfriends always accept first offerings.  This gives an artificially inflated sense of intelligence and culture.  It may seem novel for the woman at first; though guys, you’re not doing your lady any favours longterm.  See what happens when she tries to use the same tactic at her book club.  All I’m saying is she better make a pretty deadly fudge brownie and that still doesn’t guarantee she’ll get an invite back.

Keep Your Shirt On when your lady decides to tell you about her day.  Her WHOLE day.  The key to handling this level of one-sided communication is to train yourself to listen to her voice for about 3 seconds, at 30 second intervals.  This is just enough to stay under the radar and avoid being accused of not paying attention.  A good way to train for this is to watch C-Span, or perhaps the TeleLatino Network for a good hour once a week.  At the end of the hour, try and remember what was discussed.  Just a hint, if you fall asleep during C-Span, or start counting the pairs of breasts you’ve seen on TLN, you’ve failed the training exercise miserably.

In our current era, to be successful longterm with a woman, just remember.  Women will never put up with an A-Hole, though they are constantly living with JERKs.

To the female readers, I offer you this chart on how men see things:

As you can see, men also have a WIDE variety of topics running through their head, often it is difficult to keep track of such a myriad of topics in one’s mind.  Personally I find an hour of “meditation”, with the help of the internet, is the only way to keep my head clear.  One tool for women that I suggest, if they really want to get the attention of their male counterpart, is the “CLIT” method of communication:

Clothing, or lack thereof, has a huge impact on men.  Want the fence painted?  Want us to hear you say this?  Hint at the  chance of your “assets” potentially being put on display if the mission is accomplished. That fence will be painted so fast, you’ll be wondering when exactly your man became so adept with his hands…

Lips.  Men love them; though only when they are moving slowly and deliberately.  When they move really fast, it confuses us; like tenth grade math, or the fastener on the back of the first brassiere we ever encountered.  Exaggerate and elongate every word.  Move those lips like they’re in a slow motion film and we’re all yours.

Intent is the key.  If you want to have a conversation about your upcoming nuptials, that’s fine, just remember to use “flag words”.  Guys will talk about a wedding all day, provided you throw in interesting guy “lingo” once in awhile.  An example would be:  ”I love you in that Tux.  I bet Tom Brady or George St. Pierre couldn’t pull that off so well”.

Tease us with your words.  Throw a subliminal word in every fifty or so.  Something like:  ”…I can’t believe Sara would even say something like that.  I mean, I know Kristen can wear the wrong shoes with an outfit on occasion, still that’s no reason to call her fashion-blind.  That’s just fellatio cruel to speak of a friend that way…”.

If you can learn to use the CLIT to your advantage, a guy will be at your beck and call.  Who knows, maybe if you  help a man to understand how the CLIT works, it may even be beneficial to you.

Best of luck kids!

It doesn’t matter who you are, where you were born, or how your experiences differ from one another.  Unequivocally, we all have at least one memory from childhood that is burned into our memories, which instantly can bring some level of fear, if not  full-blown panic.

For me, it is this guy:

While I understand most of you may not think this “Clown” is very scary, indulge me while I “paint” my childhood experience.  Picture this: I have just turned six years old.  I’m all excited because Mom and Dad have let me know that I have graduated to the “Big Boy” room; where I get to sleep without my three year-old brother.  Alone.

Initially, there is huge bout of excitement with the oncoming novelty.  There are pictures of playing Star Wars in my head, making my room the Death Star.  I’m feeling full of gusto.  My Mom brings me into the room for the first time, just before bed.  She tucks me in, I believe also reading me a bedtime story, as any mother worth her salt would do.  As I settle in to nod off, Mom puts the book away.  From behind her head, who do I see looking down at me from the wall?  None other than the clown-faced killer.

He may not seem that menacing, though just look at it through the eyes of a six year-old who is without a night-light.  Look at “Eduardo” (as I now affectionately refer to him), he has the straw-like hair of a crazy person, the facial hair growth of a hobo and those eyes, oh, those eyes…I swear they would dart to and fro, laughing at me.  The worst part about it was, I happened to be the age where I didn’t want to make a fuss because I had just been promoted to the status of “Big Boy”.   I wasn’t going to give up that title without a fight.

For the most part, I figure I lucked out in the parents department, save this one choice.  Who in their right mind would put this up in their young son’s bedroom?  Let’s just say there was a marked increase in bed-wetting instances after that night.  I’ve tried to take the high road on this one but honestly Mom, this decision ranks up there with your choice to buy the family cross-country skis that one Christmas.  Used one time and never saw the light of day again.

After “Eduardo”,  there was my fourth grade music teacher, who can most aptly be described as a cross between these two images:

<—This And This —>

Nice lady, honestly.  I just made sure to sit up straight and her class and constantly be amongst friends, just in case she decided she was going to peel back her skin, exposing her alien self, before eating one of us.  ”Safety in numbers” doesn’t just refer to how an enemy will be defeated, it’s more talking about your increased chance of escape, due to the predator not knowing which target to focus on.  Let’s just say I sat beside the kid with asthma in Miss B’s class for good reason.

Thankfully, I have grown older, wiser and much braver.  I now hang “Eduardo” proudly in my bedroom, feeling comfortable with the fact that his lurking eyes have remained just that, plus he serves his purpose on Saturday mornings; when an overly-spry companion starts giving me “relationship material” eyes.  I make sure to “sleep” an extra hour after she wakes up.  Eduardo doesn’t exactly inspire a warm, fuzzy feeling.  I  also believe Miss B to be dead and gone, or at least to have teleported back to her home planet, taking a few tasty tots as “tapatizers”.

While I remain confident I can handle whatever life throws at me, there are only three things that scare me to the point of the “pant-leg trickle-trickle”.  Those things are:

Plus This:

Equals Couples Doing Things Like This:

Which in turn, inevitably leads to one of these:

Thankfully, I have been able to keep my wits about me to this point.  I’ve realized I have to keep my head on a swivel, or I’ll wind up being the proud owner of some creepy, “Remember When” photos and my very own, crying, pooping kidapillar.

If fortune does happen to deliver me such a knockout blow, I realize fully that the ride is over.  The little tyrants will consume my life completely with soccer practice, dance recitals and Saturday afternoons with Pixar’s latest offering.  While I will accept such a fate bravely, I have one last card to play.  I look forward to the day I will hang “Eduardo” in my child’s bedroom.

I read a disturbing article recently that said redheads could very likely be extinct within the next 100 years.  Extinct.  Gone.  Wiped off the face of the earth, never to return.  Like silent movies, or my current apartment’s damage deposit.  Redheads are going the way of the Dodo bird and we are just letting it happen.

Perhaps we need a little perspective:

For Gals – this would be like “Ladies Night” disappearing.  Imagine being forced to buy your own drinks the whole night, plus those of a member from the opposite sex, who you undoubtedly are going to strike out with, the way a guy does.  Bars would shut down, as women are far too fiscally responsible for such shenanigans.

We might well just start rioting right now.

For Guys – This would be like…really bad for us.  Emma Stone, Isla Fisher, Julianne Moore, Christina Hendricks.  For crying out loud, Emma Stone!

"With great colour, comes great responsibility."

My first real friend that was a redhead was my buddy Dennis.  He was a menace.  I’m not joking.  I danced the line of the law with Dennis from ages 10 to 12, taking me on spirited misadventures, all of which I shall remain silent about, save one.  He introduced me to “liberating” freshly tossed pornographic magazines from convenience store dumpsters.  To a twelve year-old boy, this is the rough equivalent to discovering a cure for blindness.  Or perhaps a cause for it, depending on who you talk to.  Oh Dennis, words cannot express my gratitude to you, for introducing me to:

Miss July 1986 – Lynne Austin

TURN-ONS:
Men’s buns, expensive cologne, green eyes, diamonds, kisses and … OK, Rob Lowe!!

FAVORITE MUSICIANS:                                            Bruce Springsteen, The Cars.

FAVORITE TV SHOWS:
“The Cosby Show,” “60 Minutes.”

FAVORITE FOODS:
Corn bread, fried okra, pinto beans, lasagna, cheese popcorn & light beer (together).

The Cosby Show, Bruce Springsteen, Lasagna…I was probably the only twelve year old that watched 60 minutes religiously.  I didn’t stand a chance.  I refer to those times affectionately as “The Lost Summers”.  Now, I know some of you purists might be saying she should have been a redhead.  Well, she’s not.  Get over it.  Dennis did and so did I…over and over again.

Moving on.

The “Gingers” are a funny group.  Not funny, like the “face” that the parts guy made at Audi, when I asked him if they offered some sort of a payment plan, after learning the cost of a  replacement headlight on my parent’s Audi A4.

"Pay cloze attention, Zis is vhere zee German otto mekaniks, shteal mein spirit, one Euro at a time"

Still for sale, by the way.  I mean funny, like the time my sister walked in on me, while I was “rounding third base” with one of her girlfriends.  Trust me, even at the time, it was a barrel of laughs.  Why, oh why, did you have to turn on the basement lights, Sis?  Still a memorable event.  And that is what my experiences are with redheads.  Whenever I’ve been around a copper-top, I’ve laughed, I’ve often felt worried for my life. I’ve always felt entertained; kind of like I was at Disneyland.  Or at least Six Flags.  Oh, by the way, my sister’s friend, the one who engaged in some “teenage exploration” with me…none other than a “Cherry-Top”.

In my humble experience, with such fantastic encounters under my belt, I put forth a modest proposal.  We start a “Save the Gingers” campaign.  Perhaps we have a global day-off, in their honor (Except maybe in Asia, where I’m pretty sure redheads are still considered demons of the highest order).

Just a heads up gingersnap, this is how they see you in China.

After all, what happens to every other endangered species?  We quarantine them and force them to mate until their numbers are respectable enough, so that they can once again be considered a reliable food source in a pinch.

I think we need to stop playing favourites.  Consider the Giant Panda.  I’m not saying the furry bastards aren’t worth saving, though I would love to see the Blobfish get even a shadow of the attention the Panda gets.

Pandas: A marketing department's wet-dream

Blobfish: "We're not Clownfish, but we grow on you."

            Versus

Hardly seems fair, does it?  No, I’m not saying that redheads are Blobfish.  Just that they often get the same amount of attention.  Meanwhile, the unworthy blondes (Pandas) soak up all the attention.  Besides, I always root for the underdog.  The pandas are cute and spoiled, which gets old fast.  Unless I’m dating you.  Apparently then, it can go on for years.  The Blobfish on the other hand, you just know has been stood up more than once.  The Blobfish has humility and an unexpected charm.  If it came to my door selling chocolate covered almonds…well I’d probably slam the door in it’s jello-like,  little face.  A few seconds later though, I’d feel really bad about it.  Such is how the redhead is treated and there is simply no excuse for it.  Unless they actually are vampires, which is a commonly held belief, at least in my neighbourhood.  In that case, never ever invite them in.

Potentially blood-draining risks aside, I think redheads deserve a second chance, a fair shake; we need to help them flourish.  Perhaps we should give all the redheads an island, kind of like a Club Med for the freckled and short-tempered.  It should be a place where they can have a chance to procreate like rabbits.  In fairness, we should probably ply them with alcohol; as redheads tend to be shy, until they get a bit of the “honesty juice” under their belts.  It would be a place where “fire crotch” is a used as a term of endearment.  A place where they can escape the sun, like the Ginger Ninjas they are, when it comes to UV rays.  Perhaps we should give them Ireland.  We can let Carrot-Top entertain every night (What that wouldn’t do for his self-esteem, along with hitting the gym), and they can have a national “Punch a Non-Ginger” day.

The new "unofficial bad-boy" for redheads. I mean, well done, though I still don't think I'd buy the workout video.

A few last things to consider:

Redheads going extinct would be like the Belgium or Ecuador disappearing from the world map forever.  It may not have a huge impact, though it would really screw up my strategy during a game of RISK.

Mmm...Belgian Chocolate. I know, right? Yeah, wouldn't exist because neither would Belgium.

Redheads make up approximately two percent of the world’s population.  Imagine the world as a 100-piece jigsaw puzzle.  Now imagine you are just about finished putting it together, only to realize you are missing the final two pieces.  How chapped would you be?

Having no redheads would mean we wouldn’t have any of those cute ginger girls, who are splattered with freckles.  That’s like having leopards without spots.  You know what a leopard without spots is?  A big, generic-looking predator that still wants to eat you.

Let's be honest, you probably wouldn't strike up a conversation if he didn't have spots.

There may be a time in the future where emerald eyes and matchstick coloured hair become integral to our survival and advancement as a species.  Go ahead and laugh, though there was a time where the kid with no physical abilities stood a chance either.  Then those physically hindered lads, who were forced indoors, came up with things like the world wide web.  Now those guys own Google and Facebook. They no longer live in their parent’s basement and eat only pizza pockets.  Okay, maybe they still do, though the point is, they could now afford to move out at any time and pay someone to heat pizza pockets for them (even flipping them part way through, so they wouldn’t still be frozen in the middle). Speaking of which, they should start a Google and Facebook strictly for redheads.

Future Mark Zuckerberg?

For the small price of a hug, or a nod of recognition, you can make the difference in a redhead’s life today.  Hug now, the gingers are standing by.

That is all.

When I was a little kid, as I’m sure it was for you, I ruined a lot of things with my superhuman abilities.  Toys, clothes, my parent’s reputation as good neighbours (“Listen here, old man Strelzyack, all I’m say is that your vegetable garden had it coming…”), all were at risk.  Being a superhero allowed my imagination to fill the cracks of my childhood psyche, in the same way a spilled can of Orange Crush was so quickly absorbed by the cloth seats of our Jeep Wagoneer.

"I think deep down, old man Strelzyack really liked me. Deep, deep down."

With this in mind, there are a few modern-day superheroes that I have conjured up because, well…quite simply it seems at times, all I have left is my imagination.  And of course the ability to deny the reality of my present situation.  Really though, aren’t they one and the same?  In order of ascending importance, here are the five superheroes I would like to see “strutting their stuff” in the adult world:

1) Captain Reality Cheque: A superhero who has the ability to see someone living in “financial dreamland”, the Captain then does some quick figures with his self-created “Come On, You Know Better” accounting app for the blackberry (Don’t worry folks, I hear the Captain is beta testing a similar version for the iphone, called “iBroke”), which shows the difference between how much you think need to get in the black and what the number really is,  then he cuts you a cheque for the difference.  If you are under 20, this superhero will look a lot like your Mom or Dad.  If you’re 21 or over, the Captain tends to look more like Mr. Snuffleupagus (from what I hear, though I’ve never had confirmation of this).

"Rrr! Credit Score Make Captain Reality Cheque Angry!"

2) The Workstation Whipping Boy: Back in the days of yore, when little, snivelling princes would act like the spoiled brats they were, it was decided something had to be done about their behaviour.  Seeing as how the princes could one day very well become king, no one was brave enough to hit them.  What was the solution to this dilemma, you ask?  Simple, beat some peasant kid and “force” the misbehaving prince to watch.

I don't know about you, but I can relate to this type of childhood pleading. Just saying...

Let’s just say it wasn’t called “The Age of Enlightenment” for nothing.  I mean, were these people onto something or what?  Can you imagine how differently Wall Street and  indeed the whole financial sector would act if they had to watch some humble, middle class homeowner in America’s heartland, take repeated lashings for their behaviour?  I’m sure the change in the way banks operate would happen overnight.

I would like to institute the same thing at work.  For instance, perhaps I’m feeling a little lazy and don’t finish my reports on time.  Talk to “Willy”.  Maybe I finally decide to let Penelope in HR know that if she wasn’t such a bitter, “C -U-Next-Tuesday”, she might get a date.  What’s that Penelope?  You want me suspended, without pay?  Fine, “Willy”, my appointed whipping boy just smiles and says “Do your worst Penelope”.  You’re a gem Willy, a true gem.  Maybe you have a difference of opinion with everyone you work with and decide to urinate in the coffee.  Not a problem, just let Willy know that he may have some heat coming his way (and to stay away from the Columbian Dark Roast).  Or don’t.  It’s doesn’t really matter; he’s your office whipping boy and office environments are way too politically correct these days anyway.

3)  The “Meno” Knight: A true prince among men, the Meno-Knight is blessed with the ability to calm the savage, Meno-Dragon (also known as the menopausal woman).  Using tactics like hormone-laced chocolate and re-runs of Oprah, the Meno-Knight can, with herculean effort, keep the Meno-Dragon at bay.  In severe cases, for the common good, the Meno-Knight will sacrifice himself, by being a patient ear to the Meno-Dragon’s ceaseless wails, for hours on end.  He simply records the agonizing conversations, so that they may be played to misbehaving children as a warning, like the story of the Bogeyman.

"I don't know how to describe it Sir Knight, I just knew something was wrong when she began hissing fire..."

4) I’ve Got your Back-Jack:  How many times as a kid, or worse yet, an adult, have you found yourself trying to explain your way out of a situation, to no avail?  Mom, Dad, maybe a probation officer with what I consider to be a very poorly developed sense of humor, none of them are buying what you are selling.  This can be tedious.  I get it, believe me.  What’s really needed is a designated go-to guy, who will totally back up any ridiculous story you’ve concocted, adding to your legitimacy.

Picture this: Maybe you show up at home, maybe stinking of alcohol and shame, banging on the door, as maybe you’ve lost your house keys; maybe because you and some buddies maybe dipped into one too many bottles of O’Shay’s “extra rowdy” premium draft, earlier in the evening.  Maybe.  That’s really of little import.  What is of concern, is the roughly five and a half feet of feminine rage that is maybe standing between you and your date with that king size bed, covered in six hundred thread count sheets.  Cue Jack.

Even Batman needed Robin. A fun game is to think of other things the "R" stands for.

Just as you are beginning to drop to your knees at the front door (either to beg forgiveness, or just give up on standing because the world may or may not be spinning), the phone rings.  Your significant other, spurred only by innate female curiousity (yes, the same kind that killed the cat), wonders who would be calling at three in the morning.

Departing from the doorway, offering you nothing more than a look of contempt, your better half leaves you to answer the phone.  The phone call goes something like this:

“Hello?”

“Hi is this (insert name of person who maybe deserves better than you)?”

“Yes, Who’s this?”

“This is Jack.  I’m just calling to see if (insert name of person who maybe is so drunk, the makers of Advil will soon be calling him a “preferred customer”) arrived home okay.  We were leaving our card game when a group of hoodlums came at us from out of nowhere.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, in fact you might want to check your partner’s head for cuts, as the hoodlums hit him over the head with a beer bottle.  In fact, I’m quite certain he’ll smell like he bathed in alcohol. Oh, by the way,  they maybe also stole his keys, so you maybe want to consider changing the locks.”

“Indeed.  Well, thank you for the call Jack, I’ll be sure to give him all the attention he deserves.”

You may be thinking that this phone call was an epic failure.  That’s because it was.  What you may have failed notice, is that the phone call has allowed you time to make the drunkard’s sprint to the bedroom.  This way you can feign sleep and get that peace and quiet you were hoping for while your spouse spends the rest of the night on the couch, flipping through old high school yearbooks, reminiscing over all the great opportunities she passed up for you.

On a related note, there is a female version of the superhero explained above.  She is known as “I keep it chill, Jill”.  In this case, your superhero friend Jill, who is probably some sort of Scot-Irish mix and blessed with her grandfather’s constitution; is the official spokesperson for your group of girls when you spill into in the front entryway, looking like the winners of the “Oh My God, this is the first time I’ve ever drank and I can’t believe I’m doing this!” contest.  While the rest of you are stumbling around on the floor, trying to repair your broken heels and reputations with chewing gum; Jill explains how you are “so excited about your spending the future with such a special guy”, to your “maybe” future husband.

"No Seriously sweetheart, I had like, one drink."

5)  The “Decision Maker” –  As an adult I have been witness to, our part of, a few disagreements that have spun out of control in a very dramatic, very seventh-grade-junior-high-dance sort of way.  Let’s just say if the disagreement were a cheeseburger, somebody ordered “triple drama with a side of tears”.  In this instance, it’s time to call in a real adult.

The decision maker will undoubtedly hail from Switzerland, land of neutrality.  With a deftness equal to that of your Grandpa or Grandma, the decision maker will end the argument with one sentence, at the same time rendering a decision and somehow making you feel guilty for not solving it on your own.  If the disagreement continues after the decision is passed, the decision maker will parade out any children in the area and discuss with them how you are an example of “what road not to take” in life.  One way or another, the drama comes to an end.

Sometimes the ref won't like what YOU have to say.

In the not too recent past, I found myself once again released into the wilds of the single’s world.  I quickly realized that, for a long time, I had been living off the fat of the land which was my ex’s culinary mastery; or as I like to call it, chicken pot pie prepared by “she-who-must-not-be-named”.

"Yeah it tastes great! What's that? You tried a new kind of poison? That must be it..."

About a week into my quest for fire (Read: not able to figure out the timer on the oven, so it keeps shutting off mid-way through the pre-heat), the harsh reality set in that I could actually starve to death.  This is the type of drama that one deals with post break-up.  You know, that old “the whole world is against me and everything I see when I look around me reminds me of love. And pain.  And Natalie Portman”.  That last one may just be me, though the jury’s still out.  In one brief moment when I shook off my post break-up melancholy, I decided I would have to procure some food stuffs if I wasn’t going to whither away.  Enter the grocery store.

It's never a good sign when the produce is making a break for it.

Without further pomp, here is the list of survival tactics that I have to offer you, that have only been obtained along with the acquisition of many battle scars:

1)Sunday is not Fun-day:  If you think going to the grocery store on late Sunday morning/afternoon is a good idea, you may want to consider moving home with Mom and Dad,  like right now. You’re obviously in over your head. Everyone is at the grocery store on Sunday.  I mean everyone.  Soccer moms, old people, telemarketers, telepaths (always in my business, by the way),fascists, the guy from HR who always asks you to buy those chocolate-covered almonds for his group to raise awareness about something or other, all I hear is blah, blah, blah.  They’re all there.  Stick to weeknights, after seven.  Who are we kidding, like we can’t fit it into the schedule?

Do yourself a favor; get appallingly drunk on Saturday and just wake up on Monday at like, two a.m. and go into work.  Mondays suck anyway and the boss will appreciate that kind of eagerness.

"I have the DREAM job"

Remember to bathe, or at least keep some Old Spice in the desk drawer.  Nothing reminds your female co-workers of their fathers (or uncle bad touch) like the aroma of Old Spice, competing with a hint of twelve-dollar whiskey.

2)Go with the cart, not the basket:  I know the concept of wielding a shopping basket throughout the grocery store, putting one’s “arm candy” on display seems like an attractive option.  It is.  For a fireman, or perhaps a homosexual gym rat, both equally well-versed in handling a great deal of “big hose”.  If you are neither one of these, cough up the coin and rent a cart. Your “guns” will thank you, when you’re not cooling them off with frozen peas as the cute pharmacist walks by, with a disapproving shake of her head.  Rookie error.  Besides, vegetables are heavy.

Looks an awful lot like the start of a horse race.

3)Fake it ‘till you make it:  Like everywhere else, the grocery store is now a place to see and be seen.  I use vegetables to create the facade of health.  I  suggest carrots or radishes; they are reasonably cheap, they will last a good long time before they have to be thrown out and they don’t grow unsightly “appendages”, like potatoes.  I also suggest strawberries, as there is an off-chance that you may in fact eat them.

Strawberries: Sweet, like your first girlfriend. Or your Mother, before menopause.

Ah, strawberries, the old, girl-next-door of fruit.  They’ll never let you down, like the rest of life will.

The odd time, I will throw in a “wildcard”, exotic veggie.  I do so to create an image of a man with a cultured palate.  You will be the envy of everyone else in line, who are suddenly trying to hide their canned corn with a package of bacon.

A note of caution:  by grabbing an exotic veggie, you are opening yourself up to attention and perhaps a barrage of unwanted questions from “Captain Nosey Britches”, the pain-in-the-ass, urban enviro-douche; who is undoubtedly looking to serve you a cold dish of comeuppance in front of the checkout girl.  If you are buying Bok Choi or star fruit, know your facts first.  This way you can keep the hippie in check, as well as look sophisticated to Tiffany, from the 15 items or less line.

If hippie guy keeps needling you, just mention you are buying groceries for your sister, who is too ill to leave the house.  Checkmate.  You might as well ask Tiffany if she needs a towel for her soggy panties, because her knight in shining armor has just shown up, carrying the head of a know-it-all, eco-friendly, Prius owner.

4)Beware the Silverback: Too often, I’ve found that the mother who is shedding children from her womb the way I shed my dignity during a 2 for 1 lap dance night at “Juggles”, is unfairly shackled with the title of “worst supermarket offender”.  Granted, her litter of bastards can “bring the noise” when they hit the pop and chips aisle, I still find they are not as bad as they seem at first glance.  Will they pick their nose and wipe it on products?  Yes.  Are they walking petri dishes, carrying viruses by the Tonka truckload? Yes.  Still, this is expected.  The occasional eardrum splitting scream aside, I say give Mom a pass.

Notice Dad is nowhere to be found. This is not by accident.

Besides, they are kids, if they become too much of a hassle, hit them with your cart.  Mom will automatically assume it’s the kid’s fault and deal out punishment accordingly.  You have been able to pass by them in the toughest aisle, enabling you to grasp the last bag of Doritos while junior is assessed for injury on the “Mom” scale.  The kid will have learned a valuable life lesson.  Feel free to flip the kid off while Mom’s back is turned.  These moments of exploitation don’t happen often enough.  As far as I’m concerned, ring that bell and ring it loud.

The real offender however, is not the woman who lived in the shoe.  It’s the dinousaurs.  You know them.  The elderly.  That woman who quite literally has nothing better to do than to slow you down in the cold remedies aisle, to “appreciate the moment”.  To stew in it, with unbridled rage.  These wiley, old veterans will put you to sleep before giving you your way.  They feel they’ve earned it.  Maybe they have.  As in any tribal society though, leadership should be tested, constantly.

She seems sweet now. See what happens when you both go for the last box of All-Bran.

Say Grandma and Grandpa Pricklypants are attempting the classic cart block.  We’ve all seen it: cart directly in the middle of the aisle, holding you up, like Checkpoint Charlie, while they discuss the unbelievable spike in the cost of Metamucil or prune juice.  There is only one way to handle this.  Grab the cart with the stealth of a ninja and force of an atom bomb.  Spin it directly beside them, while with your other hand, sliding your cart on by from behind you. Use the momentum of the cart to pull you out of the fray, while throwing a little incendiary smile and wave of victory.  This does take a little bit of dexterity and is not for the weak spirited.  As well, expect Grandma to decide in an instant if she is going to get all up in your business.  I suggest a shoulder shrug and a “now what” smirk, to let her know who’s driving the bus.

5)Yellow and Blue, Tried and True:  Another reality you will soon face as a one half of a former unit, or worse yet, a forever single male, is the astronomical cost of groceries.  As a single male, we don’t have the luxury of well…luxuries.  Things like Ritz Crackers, Kraft Dinner, cutlery and manners, are now a thing of the past.  If the box doesn’t look completely generic, you can’t afford it.

Another gem is the sample lady from different suppliers.  First things first, be shameless about the number of passes you make to her tray.  A little frown from her should not be discouragement enough to throw you off.  Is that frown going to quell the rumble in your stomach later that evening?  No, it’s not.  So let her judge with her judging eyes.  You will be laughing when you are all full up on chicken fingers dipped in plum sauce.  I also suggest a jacket with large pockets, for samples that are non-perishable, or at least wont seep through until you’re out of the store.

Well, that’s it.  That is the knowledge I give to you.  Wear it like the warm blanket we wish we could afford.  Until next time, may your pockets be full and checkout lines be empty.

"I go mental for those Pop-Tards!"