PW's Date Goes... Not So Well, And Other Tidbits

Someone once said that 'A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is not a nice person.'  Um, yeah.  That kind of describes how my date went on Friday.  She wasn't rude per se, but she was plenty condescending, which in my books counts pretty much as the same thing.

We met a couple of weeks ago at a local pub/eatery/live music venue and got to chatting and decided on the follow up date to get to know each other a little better.  We talked on the phone a few times, and I found her a little brusque, which wasn't a bad thing really, and after my ex-wife who would never get the point of how she was really feeling about things, it was a little bit refreshing.  It was just a bit of an odd way of speaking to someone whom you were exploring the possibility of having a romantic relationship with.

Anyway, we're having dinner and we were in the process of ordering entrees when our waitress got a little mixed up.  No problem, within a minute we sorted it out and she was on her way.  This is minor stuff, not Fawlty Towers-esque shenanigans.  My date leans into me and says in a loud whisper:

'What an airhead!  How old is she, like 30?  What 30 year old still waitresses?'

'Well, I don't know.  I try not to judge someone until I've walked a mile in their shoes.  Perhaps it's the only work she can get.'

'Oh... I guess.'

We talk some more, but we really aren't connecting.  She is very physically attractive, no problems there, but her personality is becoming really off-putting.  She asks why I don't have a car (I don't really need one, and I could use the money elsewhere), why I don't have a house instead of an apartment (long story, which is a polite way of saying none of your business) and why I didn't fight my 'bitch of an ex' for custody of the kids (again, not really first date material, but I felt that having them splitting time between two places would be developmentally harmful for them, they stay with mom, mom is primary caregiver, but kids see me whenever they want - it works best for THEM).

She asks why I didn't finish university, and I'm  really starting to bristle, because I keep wanting to say NONE OF YOUR DAMN BUSINESS.  Dinner can't come and go fast enough.  I'm giving non-commital, almost bored answers (ran out of money) and she was gob-smacked.

'You mean,' she asked 'your parents didn't pay for your school?'

'Nope.  In fact, I left home for the first time when I was 17.  I paid for school by working and saving.'

'Wow, I can't believe it.'

'Believe it.  My parents were not well off.  They had no money for us to go to school.  If we wanted to go to university, we had to get a scholarship, or roll up our sleeves and pay for it.'

'Wow.  So no school?'

'No.'

'Did they buy you a car?'

'No.'

"I guess I'm lucky... my mom and dad bought my first car and paid for school.  They have a down payment for my first house too... I guess I'm pretty lucky.'

'It's all relative...'

She cocked her head to one side with curiousity.

'I mean, yes, it would have been nice to finish school and know that I don't have to scrounge for the down payment for my house, but then I wouldn't have lived my life the way I've lived it to this point, which for better or worse I wouldn't have traded for the world.  At the end of it all, life isn't about what you have, it really is what you make it.'

'Oh, I guess so...' as if she wasn't sure... oh well.  Waitress comes back with entrees and we order two more drinks, hers some sort of martini and mine is a Newcastle Brown Ale (natch!).  And then she looks at the waitress and says:

'Did you maybe want to write that down?  You seemed to have trouble before...'

The waitress was taken aback a little.  'I assure you that your order will be correct'

'Well, just saying... I want to be sure, you know?' in a really condescending voice.

Urk.  I'm turning red.

The waitress whips out her pad, makes a note and returns with the drinks.  I'm embarrassed.  We eat in silence.

'You're quiet eh?' she says to me at last.

'Dressing down the waitress like that was really uncalled for.  She made a mistake earlier, and I don't think calling attention to it like that was good.'

'Waitressing isn't rocket science.  If she can't get an order straight then she shouldn't be a waitress.'

'Wow.  Okay then.'

We finish, pay up and leave.  We were planning to take a stroll but the weather is absolutely terrible.  I emphatically don't mind.  I begin to thank her for the evening, when she interjects:

'So, take a cab back to your place?'

'I... huh?'

'We can't go to mine, I live with my dad.'  I should point out she is 25 here, a full 10 years younger than me, so it's not that weird that she's still living with a parent.

'Well... uh... thanks for the company and the evening, but I'm not interested in seeing you again.'

'What?  Why?!' she was genuinely upset.

'I don't think our date went well, there was no connection on my end, so once again, thanks for the evening, but I'm going home now.'

'Is this about the waitress?'

'Partly yes.  I find your attitude toward other people that you consider to be beneath you off-putting.  So once again thanks, but once again I am going home alone.'

'But... don't you want me?  I want you!'

'You're very attractive, but the answer is no.  I'm sorry.'

'Oh... okay then.  Whatever I did, I'm sorry.'

I highly doubt that.  But whatever.  The world of dating again.  Hooboy, do I not miss this.  Sad thing is, this is far from the worst dinner date I've ever had.  Remind me and I'll share that little gem some day.



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It's no secret I'm a soccer fan and there was lots for me to chew on this week.  England played Holland on Wednesday, and the Three Lions fielded a very young, inexperienced squad against the Netherlands.  It was actually quite an entertaining game, and England played well for large chunks of it, despite falling behind 2-0 (including a stunningly brilliant goal by the Dutch Winger Arjen Robben).  They clawed back to make it 2-2 in injury time before the Dutch potted the winner a minute later.  First England loss in over a year, which sounds really strange, but true, but they were operating on a very experimental squad using a very experiemental 4-3-3 formation, and all this without a proper manager.  For Euro 2012, we shall see.

And this morning was the Tyne-Wear Derby, pitting my beloved Newcastle United against their hated local rivals Sunderland.  This is the big one.  This is the match Geordies all over the world wait to see.  This is Yankees-Red Sox.  Toronto Maple Leafs-Montreal Canadiens.  This is rivalry at its most intense.  This derby divides friends, family and co-workers.  Your best mate may be a Mackem (a person from Sunderland), but for 90 minutes you WILL hate his guts.  At best intense shame and ridicule is at stake.  At worst, hooligan violence will send people to either jail or hospital or both.  I was up late last night and did not want to risk sleeping in, so I stayed up all night to watch the 6 am start.  And Newcastle was... disappointing.

Actually both teams weren't at their best.  Tons of fouls and yellow cards and free kicks.  Ugh.  Brutal, constipated football.  Sunderland went up 1-0 on a suspect penalty call, but had a player sent off early in the second half for an elbow or punch (I didn't see it).  Newcastle dominated, but were looking for even-up penalty calls instead of concentrating on the play.  Then Hatem Ben Arfa was subbed on and lit up St. James' Park, but still no goal.  Newcastle got a penalty shot of their own.  Our star striker from Senegal Demba Ba took the shot and...  Saved!  Aaargh!!  Then finally in the 90th minute, derby hero Shola Ameobi tied it.  They got a point, but probably should have won it.  No killer instinct this week (or indeed the last few weeks), and they aren't looking like a team that is chasing a Champions League spot.

A short history of the Tyne-Wear Derby

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Nick and Gerry have settled into their new place, but Nick has been phoning me almost nightly since moving in with his soon-to-be stepdad.  I've been taking him out a lot more, and we've really started to bond closer than we've ever had before.  When it gets warmer out, I'll grab Gerry too and have both boys, but Nick needs me a little more right now.

He's turning into a really fine little boy.  Saturday he wanted me to come out and play, so I obliged him.  I took him to the park where we rolled around in the snow playing with his new Nerf dart gun.  Afterward, he hugged me and told me I was the best dad ever.  That is what gets me up in the morning, I tell ya.


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My soccer coach/player called me last week and gingerly asked if I was coming out this spring.  I look at my foot and tell him that I honestly don't know yet.  I've done some sprints at the Y, but my foot was really sore afterward.  I tell him I'll see and he sighs and says okay. I'm flattered.  I settled into a central defender role after playing mostly in high school as a keeper.  And I can certainly fill in as keeper when needed, but we have a Korean fellow who is phenomenal, it's a miracle he's just playing pick-up soccer with us rag-tag bunch.

Being a central defender means I'm pretty much only in 2/3 of the field and pretty much in the middle, except when chasing down a striker 1 on 1.  It's a good position for an older guy who can put on a quick burst now and again. Except I'm not so sure I can put on the quick burst anymore.  I used to have a flexible ankle to push off of when sprinting, but it's become a lot stiffer since the injury.  I may have to come off early, but centre backs usually play the whole 90 minutes.  I don't know.  All I know is I'm going to try.


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Check out Whichbook, a handy little website when you're stuck over what to read next.  Set your parameters of what you'd like (funny or not so funny - weird or not weird - lots of sex or no sex, you're allowed 4 options) and it'll make recommendations based on your interests.   From the 10 results I got, I've read 1 (Lullaby for Little Criminals by Heather O'Neill.  My ex read that one and recommended it - as do I), and I picked Finbar's Hotel by various Irish authors.

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I've been walking home from work for the past two weeks to lose the gut I picked up while in my cast.  Between that and practically eliminating beer from my diet, I've dropped 20 pounds in the last 6 weeks.  The walks are intense - nearly 10 kilometers in a little over 1 1/2 hours, which is my running goal by the end of the summer.  Remind me, and I'll track my progress here.



Well, no offense all, but I'm pretty tired so I'm calling it a night.  We'll talk soon


- PW

Uncle Walt

Every family has an Uncle Walt.

The black sheep.  The troublemaker.  The one relative that the other adults in the family hate and the kids absolutely adore. 

The adults hate the black sheep because they’re shiftless layabouts that don’t have steady work, haven’t settled down and started a family and/or are secretly jealous because they live the kind of free, joie de vivre life that they wished they could live.  The kids love them because they were adults that understood kids, would always have a smile and a joke, or visit with an armload of exotic trinkets and tall tales of faraway lands.

I’ve only met my Uncle Walt a couple of times in my life and it was when he was in his late 70s and early 90s respectively, so I didn’t get to see much of the mischief-maker that I heard so much about, although he was still sharp as a tack.  My mom swears we are both identical.  I’m not so sure, but I can see what she was getting at.  We both share a love of (harmless) practical jokes, dry wit and a penchant for sometimes making waves in the somewhat stuffier, more professional enclaves of society.

He was born in England around 1910 and spent much of his years as a young man travelling extensively throughout Europe and North Africa.  He mostly worked odd jobs, and came home when he ran out of money and work.  He rented an upstairs flat from my great-grandmother (who was Uncle Walt’s polar opposite; stern, reproachful, pragmatic and practical… stereotypically Scottish) when he wasn’t wandering and drove her insane with his shenanigans (although she never threw him out… I think deep down she loved his zaniness).  Once he came home with a pet monkey that he trained to steal food out of the kitchen and haul it back upstairs for him.  Everyone in the family swore that my great grandma was going to kill that monkey (Charlie the monkey was his name) sooner or later – and Charlie did disappear one day, never to return… but nobody really suspected her of killing him.

Uncle Walt was a notorious rake.  He was almost always penniless, but he was always dressed to the nines and had a thin pencil moustache that he sported until the day he died.  He was always entertaining young women, picking them up in pubs and music halls, taking them out dancing or to burlesque shows.  My great grandma forbade Uncle Walt having women in his room but he found ways around her which no one could ever figure out short of having them scale the side of the house and come in through his second storey window.  My Uncle Walt must’ve been charming as all hell to convince his dates to do that, because enough of them did, and he was often caught when their ‘passions’ would wake up great grandma or Charlie would get riled up and startle them into either screaming and/or stomping furiously out of the house.  Uncle Walt told me this the first time I was visiting when I was 13 (‘fucking’ was subbed for the more ambiguous ‘necking’) and he would laugh until his face was red. ‘I felt bad,’ he said to me, ‘But you’ve got to see the humour in it, lad!’

In the late 40s, my great grandma passed away and Uncle Walt traveled again, returning now and again to see the family, regale the kids (my mom now one of them) with tales of his travels, have a few home-cooked meals, borrow a few pounds and be off again.  The adults would grumble about how Uncle Walt should get a ‘proper job’, settle down and stop acting like a damn kid while the kids would swarm him and beg him to play and tell stories and continue to be the Coolest Uncle Alive.  He took the upstairs flat again, the house now belonging to his brother and his wife.  They were the first house on the block to own a television and one night, while the whole block was over watching a scary movie on television, Uncle Walt burst through the front door, with his overcoat over his head, moaning that ‘he was going to get the children!’.  About 15 kids (and most of the adults) started shrieking bloody murder, while his sister-in-law chased him six blocks down the street (with his overcoat still over his head, from the stories I heard) vowing that she was going to chuck his things into the street and he would never be welcome back – if she didn’t catch him and kill him first.  Flowers and chocolate and a John Belushi-esque smile (and a sincere apology) smoothed things over.

Uncle Walt disappeared again not too long after that, and then returned a couple of years later.  He was in his late-forties by then and starting to slow down a bit.  And the proof was that he was now married.

That shocked just about anyone who knew Walt, but not only that, his new wife was twenty-five years younger than him.  And not only that, his new wife was black.  In the 1950s.

It took a lot of courage for both of them to be together.  Her more especially, of course, because she moved to a city where she didn’t know anyone, plus she was a racial minority in an era of more open and derisive racism, plus she was married to a white man.  Aunt Irma has a yard of guts.  Uncle Walt lost a lost of friends because of his wife, but I’m proud to say that our family stood by them both.  And Walt did settle down.  Took a proper job.  Bought a house and never wandered after that.  And they were married for 43 years until Uncle Walt died in 2002.

I remember when I visited when I was 13 years old, and marveling at Uncle Walt and his stories, his humour and him in general.  He radiated a charm that only a certain exclusive tiny percentage of people have – a charm that binds nearly everyone that he talks to and holds them, until he chooses to let them go.  Aunt Irma would just shake her head in mock annoyance as he told me about his travels in Africa and his exploits on the continent, but I sat in rapt attention as he told me story after obviously exaggerated story.  I remember looking up and seeing my mom and my uncle Fred straining to listen to his stories as well.

But there was one thing that stuck with me more than anything else about Uncle Walt.  We were in a restaurant having lunch.  Walt was still impeccably dressed, if a little outdated.  His favourite suit was a deep devil-red suit with a matching bow-tie.  No one except Uncle Walt would get away with wearing it, and yet he wore that suit like with it on, he was the most handsome man in town.  And people believed it too.

Anyway, we were eating, and as a young man of 13, I had started noticing girls, but was incredibly shy and tongue-tied around them.  Our waitress in particular was an achingly, ridiculously beautiful woman of about 19 or 20, and I found myself so paralyzed with shyness I couldn’t even look her in the eye, let alone talk to her or order off the menu. 

Everyone else kind of laughed, but Walt leaned over and whispered to me:  ‘Lad, there’s no need to be so shy… women are people just like you’

And then Uncle Walt proceeded to flirt with our young waitress.  Not in a skuzzy, dirty old man kind of way, but in a roguish gentlemanly manner of someone who could still talk a bird down from the trees, but only because it pleased him to do so now and again.  And within about 10 minutes he had her giggling and smiling and blushing… and not in a patronizing way (unless she was reeeeally good, and in the waitressing business, that’s a possibility, but she was hanging around our table longer than she should have – other patrons were shooting her daggers) but in a genuine way that she was pleased and honoured that someone was paying her this kind of attention.  Walt gave me a wink as if to say See?  If an 80 year old fart can do it, so can you!  I was stunned.  Still stunned, to be honest.

Well, my mom thought I was the spitting image of my Uncle Walt.  We certainly share a few traits.  We’re both have mischievous streaks, perhaps a tad immature, a little on the shiftless side.  We both like roaming, although with the boys I don’t ramble anymore… not until they’re older anyway.  And in some ways we are polar opposites.  He was a ladies’ man.  I, while handsome enough, am not.  I do okay for myself, but I’ve never been one to play the talk-seduction-bedroom-so long game, even though at times in my life it has had its appeal.  I’m not dapper by any stretch of the imagination, but I do have a laid-back working-class chic sense of style.  And while I’m an extrovert in a group of people I know, I am the exact opposite in situations where I don’t know anyone.  I got a piece of him, but there are times I kind of wish I had more.

The point is that Walt, like all black sheep, couldn’t give a toss what others thought of them.  They lived life on their own terms, with their own goals and wants: not the goals and wants the mores of respectable society tell us we should want, but as shallow as he could be sometimes, Walt was true to himself.  And that was what drove everyone so crazy about him, good and bad.

And in that way, I’m most like my Uncle Walt. 

Just Be Something

It figures.

Every year I grow a winter beard.

Every year, when I decide I'm 'in the clear' and either shave it or trim it back, the weather turns miserable.  It is a snowy, slushy mess outside with a substantial wind.  Ugh.  At least the days are longer.  This may have been the mildest winter we've ever had here, but I'm still ready for it to end.

I'm looking to spring, to be able to jog the city streets again without worrying about my feet going out from under me.  I want to hit the soccer pitch again.  Hell, I NEED to hit the soccer pitch again.  At every thought of kicking a ball around again, a grown kid of 35, my ankle cries just a touch in protest.  Gets a little swollen and thobbing, gently reminding me that it was my obsession with playing again that landed me on crutches for four months.

Last night I was at a friend's indoor co-ed game, one of his teammates went to kick a ball, wrapped her ankle around her opponent's shin instead of the ball and wound up on the ground with her foot dangling uselessly to one side, the same dumbfounded look on her face that said This should be hurting.  Why isn't it hurting?  Don't worry... give yourself a little time.  It will.  A lot.

Truth be told, I worry about hurting myself seriously again.  As it stands, my right ankle will probably never be the same.  It healed well, but there are certain days that it throbs.  Sometimes I limp.  I can't move it with a full range of motion like I can the other one.  The physiotherapist insists that I give myself time, that it will come around, that there is no reason why I won't make a full recovery.  But I worry all the same.

A workmate of mine asked me if I was either crazy or going through a midlife crisis.  Why, she asked, would you risk hurting yourself again?  Is it really worth it?

It is.  I told her.  And it isn't.  Soccer, apart from a bit of recreation, the camaderie of being part of a team and the healthiness that comes from running around a lot, really serves no purpose.  And yet it was soccer that really elevated me and showed me that I could achieve something if I just dropped the idea that I can't do it.  It sounds like corny motivational-speaker drivel, the kind I constantly roll my eyes about, but there is something to it.  Kevin Smith once said about writing that he hears a lot of people wanting to be a writer.  Wanting to be an artist.  Wanting to be a filmmaker. 

Don't want to be something.  Just be something.  You don't need anyone's permission.  You don't need to conform to anyone's standards of good or bad.  Just like the contrived slogan of a popular running shoe company suggests, just do it.  You may succeed or fail, but what of it?  There’s a Russian(?) proverb that I hear once in a while when I’m playing chess that translates to Those who have never failed are those who have never tried anything.  Chess players take great stock in the notion that your failures teach you far more than your successes.  I’ve known that playing chess, but have always had trouble applying that philosophy in the real world.  I was afraid of ridicule and judgment and the knowledge that may not be able to do as well as I would have liked.

In the end, whether or not I play soccer again, I’m glad I tried.  I’m glad I had the courage to test myself, even if for something so trivial.  The confidence boost I got, knowing I could still run with guys ten years younger than me made it worthwhile.

Fuck it.  Maybe I’ll shave… it’s just a coincidence.  Spring’s coming after all.

Although… I do have a date coming up.  There aren’t too many beard-liking women out there, but those that do tend to be really passionate about it.  Maybe I’ll see how the first date goes…

-PW

If Day Turns 70

February 19th, 1942, in an inspired attempt to raise money for Victory Bonds, 3500 volunteers from the Junior Board of Trade and others rented Nazi uniforms and 'invaded' Winnipeg to give an average Canadian, well sheltered from the horrors of war, a taste of what life was like under Nazi occupation.

By all accounts, it was incredibly realistic.  Air raid sirens sounded, blank artillery shells and rifle rounds were fired in the 'battle' for Winnipeg, and volunteers in mock Nazi uniforms arrested and jailed the mayor, the premier and the lieutenant-governor.  'Troops' entered the cafeteria of a large insurance company and commandeered lunch for Nazi soldiers, kicking people out of their seats.  People's homes were looted, and people were seized and searched on the street.  Books were confiscated from the library and burned (they were headed for the incinerator anyway).  Nazi flags flew where Union Jacks once flew.  The Winnipeg Tribune was seized and renamed.  Churches and synagogues were closed.  And radios replaced their normal programming with Hitler's speeches and military music.  And proclamations were posted all over town:

Ankundigung

IT IS HEREBY PROCLAIMED THAT:

1. This territory is now a part of the Greater Reich and under the jurisdiction of Col. Erich Von Neuremburg, Gauleiter of the Fuehrer.

2. No civilians will be permitted on the streets between 9:30 p.m. and daybreak.

3. All public places are out of bounds to civilians, and not more than 8 persons can gather at one time in any place.

4. Every householder must provide billeting for 5 soldiers.

5. All organizations of a military, semi-military or fraternal nature are hereby disbanded and banned. Girl Guide, Boy Scout and similar youth organizations will remain in existence but under direction of the Gauleiter and Storm troops.

6. All owners of motor cars, trucks and buses must register same at Occupation Headquarters where they will be taken over by the Army of Occupation.

7. Each farmer must immediately report all stocks of grain and livestock and no farm produce may be sold except through the office of theKommandant of supplies in Winnipeg. He may not keep any for his own consumption but must buy it back through the Central Authority in Winnipeg.

8. All national emblems excluding the Swastika must be immediately destroyed.

9. Each inhabitant will be furnished with a ration card, and food and clothing may only be purchased on presentation of this card.

10. The following offences will result in death without trial

a) Attempting to organize resistance against the Army of Occupation

b) Entering or leaving the province without permission.

c) Failure to report all goods possessed when ordered to do so.

d) Possession of firearms.

NO ONE WILL ACT, SPEAK, OR THINK CONTRARY TO OUR DECREES

published and ordered by the Authority of (signed) Erich Von Neuremburg

Although it was publicized beforehand, some people managed to miss the warnings that this would be staged.  It was a miracle that some gun-toting vigilante didn't shoot any of the mock soldiers!  But all in all, the only two reported injuries were a sprained ankle a soldier got (soldiers used the event to practice field maneuvers) and a cut thumb a young woman received in her blacked-out apartment.

If Day was covered all over the world as a major news event, and by all accounts a resounding success.  In 24 hours, If Day raised 3 million (in 1942!) dollars and gave people a little better perspective on what life under military occupation was like.  A neat day in the history of Winnipeg!

My Weekend With the Boys #5 - The Soccer Disaster Edition

Ah yes, when I'm depressed or lonely, little Gerry comes along and reminds me that one of the cutest things little kids can possibly do is eat soup noodles.  And he does it cute, even by little kid standards.

The boys came over with usual excited fanfare, and dopey me thinking I'm going to be a hero greet them outside with only a t-shirt and gym shorts on.  And nothing else, not even a key to get back into the building.  It was a balmy -27C outside, so no worries as there was somebody else coming in as I was getting the boys.  I had it all planned out.  And if not?  I would have sat in the van staying warm with my ex and her new fiancee until someone came along to let us back in.  Awwwkwarrrd.

Gerry practically fell asleep in my arms as I was getting his winter clothes off, so I put him straight to bed... and you know what?  He slept.  All the way until 7 the next morning.  Bless his little heart, because I was bloody tired.  Nick and I do what we usually do on Friday nights:  strip to our underpants, make popcorn and play video games (yes, in that order).  He's still having trouble sleeping in his own bed, but he slept in his own room without too much of a fuss.

Saturday morning, and we were still in our underpants, watching Our Beloved Newcastle United get utterly thrashed by Tottenham, who I guess had something to prove.  Last week, England's football manager Fabio Capello resigned as coach over the John Terry Fiasco.  I, for one, am sad to see him go.  He had the highest win percentage of any England manager for a very, very long time, World Cup 2010 notwithstanding and had gone through 2011 undefeated.  Anyway, Tottenham's manager, 'arry Redknapp has been tapped as England's next skipper, and I'm sure the Spurs, who are mounting their first serious campaign as league champions in a half-century aren't too keen on seeing him go.  As much as I hated to see Newcastle get slaughtered, it was kinda sweet to hear the faithful chant their love for their coach at White Heart Lane to the tune of the Beach Boys' Sloop John B

We want you to stay!
We want you to stay!
We love you Harry Redknapp,
We want you to stay!'

Which is a lot more brotherly than Newcastle's take on the Sloop John B chorus, which is

'Get out of our club!
Get out of our club!
You fat Cockney bastard!
Get out of our club!'

The 'fat Cockney bastard' being none other than the owner, sports apparel magnate Mike Ashley.

Out of all the London teams, I only conceivably support two:  Millwall and Tottenham.  But I gotta admit, I do want to see 'Arry for England manager.  I think he'd be good.

No matter, Newcastle gets slaughtered 5-0, but I'll watch the Winnipeg Jets instead.  Nope.  They get thrashed 8-5.  Oh dear, and England plays World Cup runners-up Holland in two weeks with no manager.  Let's talk about something else.

I made turkey noodle soup and bread rolls from scratch for dinner and for the second supper in a row, the boys inhaled it.  I made shepherd's pie last time they were over, and Nick shocked me by devouring it.  He had thirds for Chrissakes!  And now he was wolfing down bowls of homemade soup and buns like there was no tomorrow.  I could get used to this.  I put Frankie to bed and me and Nick cuddled under a blanket and watched Kung Fu Panda.  What can I say?  He likes it, and it's a damn sight better than any of the Chipmunks movies he was obsessed with last year.

Sunday we went to my mom and dad's for supper.  My dad is having an operation to cut out some kind of nasty abscess on his bum on Thursday, but he's hanging in there.  There was a lot of tension in the house, and I could instinctively tell that dad has been drinking again.  He'd been sober for the last five months, but he's back drinking, and apparently a lot.  Probably stress from the upcoming surgery - dad does not do hospitals, doctors or surgery at all.  Trouble is, if he's back on the bottle again, I don't think he'll make it another year.  Alcohol has ravaged his body to the point where he's almost incapacitated.   Sure enough, my mom told me he's started drinking again.

'I told him,' she said to me, barely keeping her composure 'that I'm not happy.  And he asked if I wanted to leave, but where the hell am I going to go?  I'm 70 and all my friends are scattered across Canada or in England.  I don't know what to do.'  I told her if she felt that strongly about it, why doesn't she move back to England?  She said she'd been thinking a lot about it, but it'd kill dad if she left.  And yeah, I can't argue that, it probably would kill him.  I don't know what to tell her.

The ex comes to pick up the boys after another awesome visit and I head home to sleep like the dead, the way I usually do after the boys visit me.  Now as I finish off this blog post, I realize it's Valentine's Day.  It's liberating to be single on Valentine's Day.  It used to suck, but man I'm feeling good right now.  That may change the time next Valentine's Day rolls around but for right now, I feel like dancing.  I would pick the Wilson Pickett version of this song, but Warner Music isn't in a sharing mood.  No matter, Tina Turner can be my Valentine any day of the year :)

And no, the neighbour's daughter didn't wake me up this weekend at all.  I'll give it a few more weeks, but hopefully the letter I wrote had an effect.   Good night all...

- PW

Dear Neighbour Across the Back Lane...

Hi there,

You don't know me, but I live in one of the apartments across the back lane from your house.  I've never introduced myself properly, but we've smiled and nodded when we've crossed paths in the back lane.  Anyway, this isn't the purpose of this letter.

It's your daughter.  just about every weekend night since I've moved into this neighbourhood, your daughter and her friend cut through the parking lot underneath my bedroom window.  That's not the problem.  It's not my personal property, so go ahead.  My problem is that

a) it's anywhere between 2-4 in the morning
b) she is LOUD
c) she is clearly severely intoxicated

The last straw came this Saturday night when your daughter and her friend (maybe sister?) were cutting through the parking lot while they are shouting and arguing with someone on her cell.  It woke me up at about 3 in the morning.  Then I hear the sound of breaking bottles.  I look out my bedroom window to see your daughter and her friend smashing bottles against the apartment next to ours.  You may have even heard it. Yes, all that broken glass you may have noticed was from your daughter.

Then her and her friend both take down their pants and proceed to urinate right under my window, while STILL arguing loudly and being disruptive on her cell.  I opened my window and told her not to piss against my building, to which I received a torrent of obscenities and accusations that I'm a dirty old man, a peeping tom and I should mind my own business.  Probably not the smartest thing to do, I got dressed, intending on confronting them myself, but by the time I got outside, they'd presumably gone home.

This has been happening consistently since I've moved in 8 months ago.  Your daughter cannot be any more than 14 years old, and I find it really concerning she's drinking this much at such a young age.  I'm positive you aren't ignorant of it either.  At the end of our street is a clinic who can provide resources to help your daughter and yourself, should you both choose.  They are free and non-judgmental and can provide help and support.  I have personal experience living in an environment where someone may be abusing alcohol or drugs, and it can be personally shaming.  There is nothing to be ashamed about.  Alcoholism affects people of all ages and all lifestyles.  I implore you, from one parent to another, to seek help.

Of course, you could tell me this is none of my business, and you'd be right.  In which case, I'd still like your cooperation in your daughter's disruptive behaviour.  Because the next time, I may simply call the police and be done with it.

Thank you.

Your neighbour,

Prairie Wanderer.

Officially...

... I am now divorced.  Signed and sealed by Madam Justice at the courthouse.  People are asking me how I feel and in all honesty I don't feel much of anything.  As far as I'm concerned, I was divorced the day I confronted my ex about her infidelity and she looked me in the eyes and spewed the most obnoxious stream of bullshit out of her mouth to try to save her own skin, while fucking some lowlife ex-boyfriend at the same time.  I'd like to believe she wasn't the woman I married, but in truth, I don't think that woman ever existed.  She was a serial cheater who was ashamed and trying to outrun her past, and I viewed her through the eyes of a desperately lonely man who could save her soul.  She tried hard enough, I think, but the easy route has always been too hard to resist for her.  And as much as she will never admit it, me leaving her affected her more deeply than she expected and affected me more positively than she wanted.

A couple of people have offered to take me out for drinks tonight, but I don't think this is an event to celebrate.  Maybe in a day or two, but not tonight.  I'll talk to my sons before their bedtime, do the dishes, make a cup of tea and watch music videos on Youtube and then call it a night.

Tracy Chapman is one of the most prolific musicians of our generation, and this is one of my favourite songs.  It has one of the most memorable lines in any song I know:

You will do and say anything/To make your everyday life seem less mundane


I think we all do, in our own way, and the ultimate irony is that no one's life really is mundane.  It's a roller coaster of ups and downs, triumphs and tribulations, successes and setbacks, love and heartache.  It's intertwined in all of us and they are stories worth telling.  That's why I love blogs, bloggers and blogging.  Good night all

-PW