Flounce

Here it is, Day 10 of the new year and again I'm blocked. And there is now no question in my mind that the schedule is to blame.

I wanted to sit down this morning and write away. But other things (I'm looking at you Sonwun and Sontoo) required my attention. Could not focus. And then I had the trim to finish downstairs, clean-up the mess I made while trimming downstairs and then Neomom (she's off for a few days) wanted to take Sontoo skating at the local outdoor rink.

To make a boring story a lot shorter, here I am at 4:30 p.m., racking my brain and trying to meet my commitment for 90 days of blogging.

And you know what keeps coming up in my head? The word "flounce."

I blame the book I'm reading, or maybe it was the last one. The author used the word . . .

Sontoo: Dada, dada, dada, I'm going downstairs, don't turn my game off.

Me: Mmhmm

Sontoo, halfway down the stairs: Dada, dada, dada, are you going to turn my game off?

Me: No.

Sontoo: Dada, dada, dada. DADA! Why aren't you going to turn my game off.

Me: Grrrrrrrrr.)

And that's why I don't like writing with the minions scampering about. Just can't concentrate.

Where was I . . . oh yeah, flounce.

I like the word, but I don't like the fact that I can't get it out of my head. So let's just fully explore it.

It's a good word. It tells a story, provides a visual - at least for me.

And while it's been rolling around inside my head, I've come to a few conclusions. Women are more likely to flounce the men. I just don't see a man flouncing. Maybe that makes me sexist. Pretty sure I never flounced.

And the woman who flounces, can not possibly do that before showering. Flouncing, in my mind, involves are certain amount of hair movement. You can't flounce with flat, greasy hair. The hair must be fairly poofy, at least shoulder length and more often blond. A woman with short, straight, dark hair would find it difficult to flounce.

I'm not 100 per cent certain, but I'm gonna guess the word is some hybrid of flirt and pout and maybe bounce. There's playfulness, there's . . .

Now, Sonwun is whining that he's hungry, moaning, carrying on like we haven't fed him for a week. Supper's still an hour away. I don't think he realizes just how difficult it is to fully explore the word "flounce" when someone's whining and moaning. They just are anti-flounce emotions and, therefore, make my writing difficult.

No consideration. Where was I?

Oh right, the dictionary definition. And this is interesting (just looked it up).

Flounce (verb): go or move in an exaggeratedly impatient or angry manner: he stood up in a fury and flounced out.

You see, I may have it wrong. The dictionary folks used the male pronoun. Apparently guys can legally flounce. And he's angry, furious in fact. Hmm. It seemed like such a playful word.

Second definition:

Flounce (verb): • move with exaggerated motions: she flounced around, playing the tart and flirting.

See? That's more what I see in my head. But now "playing the tart" is gonna be stuck in my head for a day or two. That's just too visual to pass up.

Anyway, that's all I've got for today. Once again hoping to get back on track tomorrow, or you may just get a full exploration of playing the tart.

Your assignment for tomorrow is to work the word "flounce" into at least one conversation. If you can pull it off, please send me a note. Dying to hear how it went.

Enjoy the rest of Tuesday.

Sorry

Gonna be a short one this morning, I think.

Sonwun heads back to school this morning. Back to the routine.

With a little more than two weeks off for Christmas, we've all become a little accustomed to a more relaxed way of doing things. So this morning it's a bit of a scramble to get lunches made, breakfast consumed, coats, hats and mittens rediscovered.

Have to admit, I backed off on the rules, maybe a little too much, over the break. Beds weren't made in the morning, the dog wasn't fed by Sonwun and the Wii got more than a little too much exercise. Back to crackin' the proverbial whip. And not just with the kids.

I'm proud to say I've kept my promise to blog daily now for two whole weeks. No surprise, I guess, that it coincides with Sonwun's Christmas break. I've had a little more time each morning to sit, ponder, blather. All good.

I find my best writing time is about an hour after my first coffee, when the caffeine's fully on board, I'm awake and sort of thinking.

This time has now diminished. I have to concern myself with lunch-making, child-dressing (they do it on their own after five or six reminders) and breakfasting on schedule. Blogging, therefore, falls to a back burner.

And that, my friends, is why today's post is so damn boring.

Sorry about that, will work to improve under the new schedule.

Have a great Monday.

Where Do They Come Up With This Stuff?

**Disclaimer**

If you're not a parent of young children, if you've never seen Treehouse, just skip this one. If not, read on.

" . . . and then we would steal Caillou's cake. (Much laughter.)

Sometimes, when I'm not really paying attention, these little phrases from the minions slip past my subconscious. My well-honed practice of blocking of all things Treehouse, and subsequent commentary, fails me. Last night was one of those nights.

It surprised me to hear my innocent (ha!) three-year-old hatching a cake-theft plot against a four-year-old cartoon character on television.

"I wanna punch him in the face and steal his cake," Sonwun responds, to more evil laughter.

Now they've got my full attention. What, exactly, did Caillou do to warrant such action? Where do they come up with this stuff? And how good is that cake?

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not a Caillou fan. The bald little brat whines way too much and, I'm afraid, I've heard the whiny echoes in Sontoo's voice as he protests anything from taking a nap to going to the library. It seems he does it out of habit anymore. Any suggestion I put forth these days is met immediately by "but I don't waaaanna (fill in the blank)."

It's kinda like Caillou's catch phrase. And I don't like it.

Anyhoo, last night, after hearing my boys' plans for theft and assault, I decided to reacquaint myself with Caillou, just to see what had inspired this cake-theft plot.

The cake episode had apparently ended, but thanks to the miracle of Netflix, a new episode was beginning. And in this episode, it was bath night at Caillou's house.

"I don't waaaanna take a bath," Caillou told his way-to-accommodating parents, before running away and hiding.

So, to make a long, insipid story short, Caillou's stupid parents do their stupid best to make bath time "fun." They supply bubble bath (fair enough) and then they allow the little brat to start splashing around in the tub and, in the end, everyone ends up soaking wet.

Now, it's not shown, but experience tells me if the parents are soaking wet, there is serious water damage in the bathroom. And here's the kicker, rather than scolding the bald little brat Caillou's parents laugh at the kid's wacky antics, much to the delight of my minions. I mean, how much fun are Caillou's parents? They not only allow tidal waves in the tub, they encourage them! They're the best parents ever!

Did I mention last night was bath night?

As such, I delivered a longer-than-usual pre-bath speech/warning. Sure, they got bubble bath. I'm not an ogre. But tidal waves, as usual, were forbidden, as was splashing, squirting and bathing of the cats.

For the most part, the speech worked. But still riding the Caillou high, there was a little more splashing and a little more water on the floor when it was all over. This does not make me happy and this episode at my house does not end with laughter.

I just wanna punch Caillou's daddy in the face. And then steal his cake.

Step 1: Turn off the Breaker

New year, back to the same old stuff.

After taking a lengthy Christmas break from the many renovations under way around the house, it's time to get back at it.

And thanks in part to my checkered career path, I'm fairly capable of handling most of the stuff myself. In my youth, and a little beyond, I worked in a kitchen cabinet factory, as a labourer for a construction company, as an apprentice carpenter for a building/renovation company and as a roofer and framer.

But I'll be honest. The one thing I tend to avoid is the electrical part of the game. Again, at various points in my life, I've come away on the short end of the short circuit. When working for the renovation company, I foolishly listened to the lead hand, when he told me it was safe to touch the yellow wire while removing a fluorescent light fixture.

"Hmm," he said, after I was blown off the ladder, "maybe not."

That was where I learned that "Step 1" is always, turn off the breaker before you start. Seems obvious now.

More memorable was the time I went hunting with a buddy in Wisconsin. On the way out, I was dry. So when we crossed the fence, that had a weird little wire running through it, there was no problem. On the way home, after the rain, I was soaked. And when I started climbing that same little fence, my wet leg touched that little wire.

It felt like someone, a very large someone, had whacked me with a, eight-foot, 2X12 piece of spruce. I landed on my back, about five feet from the fence. My ever-compassionate hunting buddy did not stop laughing for about three hours.

And that's when I learned that climbing an electric fence while wet is a very bad idea. Seems obvious now.

But back to the renovations. Over the years, renovating some part of every home we've lived in, I've grown tired of paying electricians. Yes, they're good. And it's easier. But they're also expensive.

And so, a couple of days ago, faced with two little electrical problems, I hit the Internet to learn a few things about do-it-yourself wiring.

Step 1 is always "turn the breaker off before you start."

I also learned that "black to brass will save your ass." Didn't know that one. And I'd explain it further, but I don't carry liability insurance. As such, my advice for anything electrical, is hire an electrician.

The point, if there is one, is that I was successful in restoring power to two kitchen outlets. I was also successful in relocating one outlet in the laundry room, and installing a new one in the rec room. For you electricians, I'm sure it seems like nothing. For me, it was a major victory, and probably saved me several hundred dollars. Yay me.

Today, I'm back in my wheelhouse. I need to trim out the new built-in entertainment cabinet I made in September and then attack bedroom 2, which needs a few studs removed, new drywall, mud, tape and paint.

And then I have to bake banana bread. And clean the kitchen. And keep the boys entertained. And get to the library.

Have a great Saturday.

Mommy and Me

So, I thought I'd wait a day or two after my "Bestest Night Ever" post before writing this one.

Not to take anything away from Daddy-Sonwun night, but I enjoyed the following day, Daddy-Mommy day, just as much.

We called in a babysitter and, by 9:30 a.m., Neomom and I had dumped the kids like a bad habit and were in line at Tim Horton's drive-through. Armed with coffee and a couple of breakfast sandwiches, we headed for Winnipeg for a leisurely day of kid-free fun. (Love my kids.)

At Timmy's, we didn't hear one whine from the back seat about apple juice, cookies or muffins. As we headed east on the TransCanada Highway, there were no fights, no one was looking out anyone else's window, no one was spitting, no one was "talking too loud" or "looking at me."

We talked without interruption, all the way to Winnipeg. At the St. Vital Mall, we walked at a leisurely pace without having to tell anyone to stop playing hide-and-seek in the clothing racks, we shopped and could actually concentrate on what we were looking at.

I love my boys, but every now and then it's nice to be out in public, doing mundane things, with my wife.

I realize for many of you, this is normal. Maybe you get a "date night" once a week, courtesy of Gramma, or Uncle Buck. But part of the joy of the RCMP lifestyle, with all the moves and being so far from family, is that lining up a trustworthy new babysitter or two, in each town you move to, takes a little time.

You know, as I contemplated writing this post, I did my usual brain scan for funny, unusual, wacky events that took place during the day. When I wrote for the newspaper, we called it the hook.

But honestly, there really wasn't anything that stood out. It was just the regular old stuff, sans kids. But I guess that's the point. Spending almost a whole day alone with my wife is not just a breath of fresh air, it's a hurricane. It's rare, it's appreciated a whole lot more.

Anyhoo, we finished up the day with a nice lunch at Earl's, a place I've wanted to check out since we moved to the area, and then headed over to the casino to lose a little cash. Mission accomplished.

As I realized on Sonwun-Daddy night, it's great to do things as a family, but it's equally important to find time to connect, on an individual level, with each family member, as well as yourself.

Have a great Friday!

I'm part of the problem . . .

Aw crap!

I had planned a cop-out blog this morning. You know, something like a Top 10 of 2011, a look back at my favourite posts from the previous year. Turns out I only did 12 posts last year. Bad, bad blogger.

Thus the resolution to stay at this every day for 90 days. So onward.

As is my custom, I sat down with my coffee at the computer this morning to check out my favourite sites, check the weather, read a little news and check my blog stats. I mean, I write mostly for myself, but I can't help but take a look at how many people actually read this stuff. And I had a good day yesterday thanks, I'm sure, to my buddy Patrick's social media assistance. He tweeted and reposted yesterday's ramblings on his Facebook page.

On an average day, I see about 20 visitors, if I post the blog to Facebook. That number goes down to about 10 if I don't. Yesterday, I had 30 readers: 22 from Canada, six from the U.S., 1 from France and one from the Cayman Islands (Hi Steve!).

As for the news, well, I don't even want to talk about it this morning. Toxic, just toxic.

And then there's Facebook. I love some of the little posters or pictures that some folks find and share. Saw one this morning and thought, I've got to steal that and share it. Why? I actually thought about it this morning. It's this one:

Now I didn't repost this, even though I really wanted to. After all, it would make me look smart, superior. I honestly have no idea who the drunk chick on the right is. Pretty sure I've seen that pic in the tabloids in line at the grocery store checkout. But I don't know who it is.

But the kicker is the fact that I can only identify two folks on the left. Einstein and Hawking. That's it. And as much as I'd like to create the illusion that I know them all, just by posting this, I had to stop myself. Maybe after I figure them all out, I'll post it and then feel pretty smug. But for now, I just have to pride myself in NOT knowing who drunk chick is.

I guess I'm only partly what's wrong with the world today. If I learn who the rest of the good people are, I will in no way be responsible for what's wrong with the world today. It's a good goal.

Have a great Thursday. I've got some studying to do.

Bestest night ever!

Last night, I had a part in creating "the bestest night ever!"

Wasn't really the plan, and I wasn't even sure I was capable of such a feat. But I did it and it feels good.

Neomom got a call from a girlfriend here in town in the afternoon. She was invited over for dinner. The girlfriend has a son about Sontoo's age, so he was tagging along.

That left Sonwun and I to fend for ourselves. Cool! Sonwun seemed very, very excited by the idea. His level of enthusiasm actually surprised me.

But I guess I shouldn't be surprised. With Sonwun going to school five days a week, any of my individual, one-on-one time, is spent with Sontoo. He takes it for granted. And I guess I just didn't realize that Sonwun never, ever gets time alone with me. Sontoo is always there.

Gotta say that it's a bit of an ego boost to know just how much he seems to crave alone time with Daddy.

Anyhoo, as soon as Neomom and Sontoo had cleared the driveway, I headed downstairs and grabbed a coke out of the fridge for Sonwun. A rare treat. But this was man time. He could belch with impunity and needed fuel.

And then, after stuffing a piece of toffee in his mouth (too close to supper - HA!) we sat down on the couch and fired up the Wii. MarioKart! Game on! We played, side by side, cheering each other on, to first and second place finishes in a bunch of races. Sometimes he took the win, sometimes me. I actually had a great time. Excited high fives all around with each victory.

He loves to play games with me. And he loves to cook with me, given the chance. But juggling schedules, kids and hot pots is not always an option. Last night, on the other hand . . .

Phase 2 of "the bestest night ever" was the cooking phase. We worked together, Chef and sous chef, to make pizza dough from scratch. And, after scouring the fridge, came up with ingredients for a cheese and pastrami pizza, heavy on the cheese. Sonwun doesn't like too many things cluttering up his pizza.

And finally, we headed downstairs, just the two of us, to eat our pizza in the rec room, drink more coke, burp freely, and watch five or six episodes of Batman, The Brave and the Bold. A perfect end to the bestest night ever.

And that's where Neomom found us when she got home. Curled up on the floor, together, watching Batman rid Gotham City of the Joker.

You know, being the stay-at-home parent, you sometimes take the kids for granted. They are there 24-7. You don't get the excited "MOMMY'S HOME!!" at the end of every working day. You spend the day refereeing squabbles, encouraging the minions to clean up their toys and making sure they finish their vegetables, brush their teeth and get to bed on time.

So it was a gift, to me, to be able to spend one evening alone with Sonwun. To be able to relax the rules and get to know him just a little better. I plan to make Daddy-Sonwun Day a regular thing. And Daddy-Sontoo Day as well.

Well it's 5:30 a.m. and Sonwun has just stumbled out of bed. He smiles at me, still sleepy eyes.

"I had an awesome time with you yesterday," he says.

Worth its weigh in gold.

Have a great Hump Day. Celebrate as you see fit.

Day 3

So, Day 3 of the New Year and day 3 of my 90-day blogging commitment/resolution.

And Day 1 of being blocked.

So far this morning, I've written two and a half blogs. But they were written more in an effort to meet my commitment than from the heart. So I deleted them. And I'm starting again. And I'm getting annoyed.

The boys are behind me fighting over who gets the "controlling" controller in the two-man game of MarioKart. And that's pissing me off too.

I don't mind being pissed off when I write. It actually has produced some of my better stuff. But it's gotta be the right kind of pissed off. MarioKart squabbles are not the right kind.

So, back on track. A blog, after all, is little more than a journal.

I guess today I'm feeling a little out of sorts because my family, much of my family anyway, is together back in southern Ontario. I've seen the photos on Facebook of my brother, sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces and nephews touring around Toronto, enjoying dinners out together and having a good time.

The photos made me smile, but I wish I was there.

I've mentioned here before, I think, that my two brothers, two sisters and myself are spread fairly thin throughout North America. Sister in Kansas, sister in BC, brother in New York, brother in southern Ontario. Me in Manitoba. We don't get together for Sunday dinners.

As such, I suppose, we don't get into the mundane little spats that many families do. But we do miss each other, especially during the holidays and during times of stress.

And right now, we've got both. The holidays are obvious, but the stress added this year is that my dad, who also lives in southern Ontario, is fighting stage four, metastatic, renal cell carcinoma. Cancer. And, if you can qualify this shitty disease, bad cancer.

And ya know, I really didn't want to go here. I'm not really ready to talk about it in a blog. There are so many factors, so much crap going on . . . let's just leave it here.

So, plans for today . . . it's garbage day. And I've already taken out the garbage. I plan to bake bread again today, as my minions have destroyed the first two loaves and are demanding more. I'm also hoping to get them over to the skating rink and am praying that the skates we bought last year still fit.

That's all I got for Day 3. Have a good one!

The Year of the Loaf

Well, what can I say. Day 2 and it's been a busy 2012 already.

Before coffee this morning, I went sky diving, I went rocky mountain climbing, I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu. And I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter, and I gave forgiveness I'd been denying. Basically, I lived like I was Mayan.

Thanks, Tim McGraw, for the suggestions.

So I can check those off my list.

Yesterday I played, once again, with my new Christmas toy: the KitchenAid Pro 5 Plus mixer. I can actually hear angels singing when I write that.

Anyway, baking bread. I consider myself a novice. I've done it a few times with reasonable, although not exceptional results. Sonwun loves it. That's good enough for me.

But the breads of 2011 were a little dense for my taste. So I've been doing some reading in hopes of improving the loaves of the New Year. Based on that reading, I figure temperature has been my enemy on many levels. First off, when dissolving yeast, I've learned that the water should be around 100F. I kinda played fast and loose with the temperatures in the past, and probably killed a lot of innocent yeasts.

And letting the dough rise . . . again, temperature issues. Don't think the house was ever quite warm enough to let the dough rise properly, just sitting on the counter. So this year, this brand new year, I've learned that I should put said dough in the oven, over a pan of hot water. Done.

And finally, I wasn't putting the dough in the loaf pans properly. I just kinda plopped it in there. But my research tells me I should be rolling out the dough into a rectangle, and then rolling up said rectangle into a loaf shape. Who knew?

But I did it all, and I gotta say the results were spectacular. At lunch, the boys were absolutely silent. Never happens. But they were so focussed on the warm bread, with butter and grape jelly. They only spoke to ask for more. Cool!

It's cheaper, it's better for them and it's not all that hard to do.

2012 - The Year of the Home-made Loaf!

Cheers!

Wow, what a day! It oozes potential, drips with possibility. It is the first day of the rest of my life. WOW!

Already, in the few short hours since the birth of the new year, I have experienced the first wind storm of 2012. I woke up for the first time in 2012. I took my first pee of the new year, brewed my first pot of coffee, put on my first pair of socks and settled my boys' first argument of 2012.

Still flush from all this excitement, I plan, later, to cook my first breakfast of 2012, shower for the first time and then, wait for it, brush my teeth. I may even vacuum. For the first time. In 2012.

And with all of these accomplishments behind me, I will resolve to do great things in the coming year. I'll quit smoking, quit drinking, cure diabetes, run a marathon, backpack through Europe, buy a yacht and figure out how they get the soft, flowing caramel inside the Caramilk bar.

Now last year wasn't a complete loss. For example, as one of my final acts of 2011, last night I cooked supper. I made ribeye steaks with a red wine reduction pan sauce. And actually, that was a first and it was delicious! Can't wait to make that for the first time this new year.

So, Happy New Year all. Hope you had a great night last night and I hope your head isn't feeling two sizes too small for your brain. Me? I'm clean. Neomom worked last night, so I was home alone with the boys. In bed by 11. Very, very exciting.

To be honest, the last time I remember actually doing anything for New Year's Eve was in 1999, when I celebrated the impending doom of Y2K with Patrick, Wendy and my girlfriend at the time, now known as Neomom. That was back in Fort Erie, Ontario, in the little house on Brock Street, in a different life. I was a newspaper editor. Neomom was an archaeologist. We had no kids, comparatively little responsibility.

Yeah, a lot has changed. But I'm pretty sure that, having survived Y2K, I vowed to quit smoking, quit drinking, cure diabetes, run a marathon, backpack through Europe, buy a yacht and figure out how they get the soft, flowing caramel inside the Caramilk bar.

This year for sure.

Enjoy 2012. Live it like the Mayans knew something we don't.

Ugh

If you thought I rambled yesterday . . .

Good, uh, morning. And Happy New Year's Eve, 2011. And, if you believe those wacky Mayans, enjoy your final New Year's Eve on this planet. Live it up.

So, it's been a long night. Woke up at 3:30— bad. And a bad habit I've managed to foster. But I've been training myself to get back to sleep. So I picked up my book and started reading. Got maybe one chapter done before I was sleepy again. Turned off the light and started to drift off . . .

"Daaaaaaadddddddyyyyyyyy. I want Daaaaaaaddddddddyyyyyy."

Aw crap. Someone had a bad dream, or slept on his arm wrong, or the cat is bothering him, or he's worried about the whole Mayan thing. Who knows?

So, like any good daddy, I yell up the stairs: "Go back to sleep or you'll wake the monsters in your closet."

Now two kids are screaming.

Just kidding.

I crawl out of my nice warm bed and head for the boys' room. It's Sonwun this time. His face hurts. He's not really awake, but he's irritated. And noisy. I ask where it hurts and, in the dark, it seems he's indicating his jaw. I rub the sore spot, try to be soothing and soon he's less irritated and, it seems, back to sleep.

I ponder the possibilities: grinding teeth, maybe he whacked his face while we were tobogganing yesterday, whatever. He's asleep and I'm still pretty sleepy myself.

Back to bed, move the cats out of the warm spot, crawl in . . . start to drift off . . .

"Daaaaaaddddddy."

Aw crap.

Well, to make a long story a little shorter, this went on two more times before Sonwun drifted off for good. And, as I write this at 6:08 a.m., he's still sleeping like a baby. I, however, have not been back to sleep, although I did manage to finish reading several chapters in my book. wahoo.

So I don't know about you, but, with Neomom on night shift, I've got no major plans for this evening, except for watching the Canada-USA World Junior Hockey game. Here's hoping it's a little more interesting than all of the games so far. Nice to see Canada dominating, but it's making for some boring games. Hard to watch the third period when we're leading 8-0 after two.

Anyway, that's all I got this morning. Have a great day, and I'll see you next year.

Eight of Eight

Watched a disturbing movie last night. Had disturbing dreams. Coincidence?

Anyhoo, last night I was the tooth fairy. No, not in the dream. In reality.

Seems Sonwun spent most of yesterday's nap time tugging at a loose tooth, keeping himself and Sontoo wide awake for the duration. I, on the other hand, took advantage of nap time and had a lovely sleep. But awoke to Sonwun wailing just outside my door. He'd lost the tooth.

No tooth = no cash.

Seems he'd dropped it on the berber carpet that, as you might expect, is remarkably similar in colour to a young boy's canine. So we had to spend five minutes searching the stairs and lower level carpet for said tooth. We found it before one of the cats batted it around the house and under the lazyboy, and order was restored.

For the record, at barely six years of age, Sonwun has now lost eight of his baby teeth. Many in his Grade 1 classmates haven't lost any. Not sure if this is a good thing, bad, or indifferent. Just a fact.

In any case, Neomom has decided to keep all of the teeth. Not sure why, but she has. So we do. Thus, if the tooth had remained lost, it would have been a problem, not only for Sonwun's cash-flow, but for Neomom's collection.

I should also point out that, of the eight, this was not the most difficult tooth to find. That one came out when we lived in Thompson, Manitoba. And it did not come out naturally. And by that I mean it did not get loose, get looser and get pulled out by Sonwun. It was knocked out.

For a kid who, in his six short years, has broken an arm and very nearly broken a foot, having a tooth knocked out seems almost natural.

Anyhoo, in Thompson, I had constructed a swing for Sonwun. A rope swing. And seeing as his little butt was too small for a regular tire swing, I used a lawnmower wheel, a steel one with rubber around the outside. Kinda like those old pommel lifts on the small ski hills.

(I feel like I'm rambling. Seem that way to you?)

And it was this swing, tossed by a little friend, that crashed into Sonwun's mouth, taking out his tooth. After applying my vast medical knowledge to the afflicted area with a popsicle, I took a cursory look in the grass near the swing and declared the tooth missing, gone, a financial loss. Neomom, on the other hand, spent a few hours on her hands a knees, separating blades of grass in an ever-widening circle.

For that reason, last night as Sonwun slept, I reached under his pillow and pulled out number 8 of 8 for Neomom's collection and replaced it with a little cash.

Have a great Friday. Sonwun will.

The Cats are safe . . .

I read the news today . . . oh boy.

Not sure why I do this. Maybe my morning is starting off just a little too nicely. Maybe I'm too relaxed. Maybe I feel a pile of crap dumped on my soul at 6:44 a.m. is just what the doctor ordered.

But, whatever the reason, I find myself checking headlines on an number of news sites as part of my morning routine. And ya know, I never come away feeling good about the future.

So let's skip the news. Just accept that it was a craptastic day yesterday on planet Earth and move on.

Instead, let's review Christmas toys, just for fun. And we'll start with the Finn McMissile remote control car that shoots real missiles. And let's start with the bottom line: Don't buy it. Or ask Santa for it.

Santa brought two such toys to our home last weekend. A Finn McMissile for Sonwun and a missile-firing Towmater for Sontoo. They were thrilled. They'd seen in on TV in the months leading up to Christmas and the devices had made both lists - in Volume I of said list.

Now, Santa's decision to purchase these items from a third-party supplier, as opposed to having the elves make them, was a poor one. It is my understanding the elves make quality toys. Clearly, these are not of elvin decent.

Not sure what Santa paid for them, but they retail for 49.99 at Toys R Us. Plus tax.

The allure of these Disney-Pixar-licenced items, is that not only do you get a remote control car, but these fire missiles, again, using the remote control.

I was a little nervous for the cats in the house, knowing they would be immediately identified by my boys as sympathizers of Sir Miles Axlerod, the Cars 2 villain, and marked for execution.

The good news is, the cats are surviving. The bad news is that they are surviving because the missile function on the cars isn't worth a crap.

Difficult to load, impossible to fire and jams often. A little frustrating, not only for two young boys, ages 3 and 6, but also for Daddy, the mythical Daddy who knows all and has magical fingers that can fix any piece of crap that toy manufacturers put out.

This Daddy has enough trouble separating these toys from the packaging. I swear, they put more engineers to work on the packaging than they do the actual toys. Wires, plastic ties downs, industrial grade plastic wrapped all around . . . Neomom and I equip ourselves with scissors, knives and a cutting torch before we even begin opening presents.

Anyhoo, bottom line on these things is, if you want what is promised— a remote control vehicle that fires missiles— pass. If you just want a low-grade remote control car, and you're willing to pay $50 for it, go ahead. But my boys have only been using them for 4 days, so I can't say they'll necessary last more than a month.

Now, depending on how breakfast goes this morning, tomorrow's product review might just be the PiggyWiggy Microwave Bacon Tray and Splatter Lid. I've only used it once since Christmas and the results were less than spectacular. But before panning the Piggywiggy, I feel I should give it a few more chances, varying cooking times, before I review. Stay tuned.

Anyhoo, that's it for Thursday. Have yourselves a great day!

Huh?

"Pricks . . . pricks . . . pricks!"

It's 6:30 a.m., it's still dark and it's snowing outside. It's my time, daddy time. It's a time usually reserved for checking emails, facebook, fantasy football and blogging. But, as so often is the case, I am joined by at least one of my early-rising progeny. I count myself lucky if they sleep past 6 a.m.

And, as I sit here, Sonwun is racing for his life in MarioKart. That doesn't disturb me. It's Christmas vacation after all. But his mumbling is beginning to make me nervous.

"Pricks . . . pricks."

I mean, I understand getting a little frustrated with the other racers in the game. I've played, I know it's annoying when you get bumped off a bridge, or someone throws a turtle at you. We've all been there. But maybe his response is a little harsh.

So I glance toward the TV.

Now you have to understand, Sonwun is in Grade 1 and learning to read. And he loves it. Every car trip, to the store or to the library, is a reading adventure. He reads street signs, billboards and the bags the groceries come in. He's good, but he's not yet perfect.

And right now, as he decides which MarioKart mode to race in, he's reading.

He has no trouble with the word "Grand" but the word "Prix" is giving him some trouble. So he repeats it and repeats it, trying to understand.

"Pricks."

Anyhoo, at least I get to start my day with a smile. Have a great hump day. Celebrate as you see fit.

P.S. Not sure why I can't get the size and font I want throughout this blog. Must be a bug in the designers' system. Pricks.

Playing with the new toy . . .

And so, first full day with the KitchenAid Pro 5 Plus. Loving it.

First recipe: Banana bread. Had a couple of over-ripe bananas kicking around, so what else can you do?

As has become my practice when cooking and baking, the first stop was allrecipes.com. Borrowed "Cathy's Banana Bread" recipe, as it had a 4.5-star rating. I never make anything with fewer than 4.5 stars. And I've never been disappointed with this site.

Now then, I did alter the recipe, just a touch, as is my custom. First off, I didn't measure the bananas. I just guessed and went with two. Should have been about right.

Second, I baked in a standard 9X5 loaf pan, rather than the two 7X3 pans in the recipe. I also used butter instead of margarine (everything's better with butter) and I cut the sugar down to one cup. I think I could have cut it even more, but we'll wait for next time.

Oh yeah, and as a result of the larger pan, the cook time went from 50 minutes to an hour and 15 minutes. No problems.

But most importantly, I used a Sous Chef: Sonwun. This increased prep time just a little, but it was well worth it. I made him say "YES CHEF!" in response to every order given. I felt like Ramsay!

Anyhoo, long story short, banana bread was a success. The KitchenAid Pro 5 Plus was awesome, and I can't wait to make regular ol' bread. Sonwun, fetch my hat.

"YES CHEF!"

Box on . . .

So, it's Boxing Day. Celebrate as you see fit.

The unbridled greed of Christmas Day (with young ones) has drawn to a close. I'll need a Bobcat to move the empty boxes and crumpled paper from the rec room. So that's on the list.

Neomom's back to work today and Sontoo is off school for two weeks. But at least the two boys have a whole new crop of crap to wade through. Fa la la la la, la la la la.

As for me, Daddy got a new KitchenAid stand mixer. And, as luck would have it, there are four old bananas on the counter, turning black. So, banana bread it is. I've wanted this mixer ever since I started baking my own bread. While kneading dough by hand can be therapeutic, it gets a little old after a while. I only have so much anger in the bank to transfer to my dough.

So, after a quick shop this morning, Sonwun and Sontoo in tow, my plan is to bake stuff. Probably the aforementioned banana bread and then a loaf or two of regular bread. The price of the stuff at the grocery stores has just gotten out of hand. I can do it cheaper . . . and better.

Anyhoo, not gonna spend much time blogging this morning. But I have accepted the New Year's resolution of daily blogging for 90 days. After that, we'll see.

I know I enjoy writing and blogging, for whatever reason, makes me feel good. And I need that.

So, not sure if anyone's still reading this, but if you are, you should know that the next few will not be up to my regular standards. (Check back in my archive for "regular standards.") But I will improve. Read if you like, ignore if you don't.

Happy Boxing Day all!

Christmas is coming . . .

**DISCLAIMER**
Not sure what font or type size will appear on this one. Blogger seems to have changed the way it does things since my last posting. We'll see.**

Well, another day begun. This at 4:30 a.m., with the loud proclamation from upstairs: "Daddy, I'm done peeing and pooping!"

And even though it is the sweet little voice of my three-year-old and it's a cute little sing-song sound that floats down the stairs, at this time, it hits my ears like a smoke detector on steroids.

But I am daddy, and I now must take care of the paperwork. And then I must utilize my best gentle daddy voice to try to soothe Sontoo back toward sleep. And I fail.

As I type this, I am listening to a discussion between Sonwun and Sontoo. Seems Sonwun wants to sleep and Sontoo, now fully awake, would like to offer up a personal opinion on his recent viewing of Thomas the Train: Steamies versus Diesels.

Diesels are bad! Just in case you were wondering.

Well, Christmas countdown is on. Seven days until Christmas Eve. Seven days of Sontoo asking if he can open the presents under the tree. Seven more days of Sonwun repeating, "I wish I had that," with every salvo from the myriad marketing departments fired down from satellites to our television set.

Six days to get a turkey, wrap up the shopping and settle in for a few days of rest and relaxation.

And in spite of the fact that Sears' Christmas Wish Book arrived in September, and we've been bombarded by Christmas movies, commercials and specials since late October, we have managed to save one or two things for Christmas Eve, and maybe Christmas Eve Eve.

The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, for example. And no, I'm not talking about the creepy, crappy 2000 version. I'm talking about the 1966 classic, that my brothers and sisters and I used to gather to watch the ONE OR TWO times it was on in maybe the week or so before Christmas. (Not 45 times starting in mid-November). So we're saving that one for Dec. 23 or 24.

I admit that, in the last week, we have watched Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, Frosty the Snowman and Elf. Unfortunately my copy of Scrooged was on VHS. Must buy DVD, or Blu-ray.

We are also holding off on our trip to Island Park, here in Portage La Prairie. It's a new tradition, started last year when we loaded our pajama-clad crew into the mini-van and drove through a pretty impressive Christmas light display. The boys loved it and have been pushing for it for the last week or two.

Why wait?

Well, the weather's just not cooperating. We're experiencing and unusually snow-less December here. And to fully enjoy the Island Park experience, I need a blanket of the white stuff. Cross your fingers.

Anyhoo, that's all I've got this morning. Enjoy the season. And don't let anyone take the Happy out of your Happy Holidays.

I saw it coming . . .

You know, I saw this one coming. I should have put a stop to it, but I didn't.

Sure, I threw out a half-hearted, "Sonwun, that's probably not a great idea." But in hindsight, I should have done more. I should have taken the rope, the harness and the rocks and put them away, in a safe place.

So when I heard the screaming from the front lawn, I had a pretty good idea of what awaited me outside. It was the kind of screaming that tells you something is seriously wrong. No one threw sand at someone else. No one took someone's toy. No one was looking out someone else's window.

No, this was the real thing.

Sonwun loves trees. He loves to climb them, hang from them, break branches from them and find bugs in them. He also loves ropes. He loves to tie things to ropes and drag them around. And he has combined these loves on our front lawn.

Using his mother's rock-climbing harness, he will toss a rope up over a branch and actually haul himself up to said branch to get into the tree. I'm actually proud of this. It takes some effort and he keeps at it until he succeeds. I know it's dangerous, but I've watched him do it and he's pretty careful.

But he also likes to tie the rope around large rocks and try to haul them up into the air. I've seen this. I've sent out the half-hearted warning. But I should have done more.

Last night, after supper, he tied up a 20-pound rock and began hauling. It apparently reached a branch about 7 feet up before it broke loose. And it fell. And it landed on his little foot. And it smashed that little foot, breaking at least two bones, possibly three. (The radiologist wasn't in last night.)

I am thanking God today that the rock landed on his foot and not on his head. And not on Sontoo's head, as Sontoo was playing under the same tree.

I'm also thanking God that Sonwun's a normal, adventurous boy. He doesn't shy away from challenges, he continues to ask himself, "what happens if . . ." and then works to answer that question, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day. It's not a bad way to live.

But I guess that, maybe a little more often, I need to step in and answer the question for him. The answer this time, I knew, was "The rock will eventually break free and fall. And you better not be under it when it does, because it will do some damage."

And I guess that this is one of the fine lines of fatherhood. I've got to figure out when to answer the question and when to let him figure it out on his own. I think I dropped the ball on this one.

Anyhoo, it's still dark out now, but when the sun rises I plan to take pictures of the victim, the offender and the crime scene. And maybe I'll post them tomorrow.

It's 5:45 a.m. and both boys are already up. Sonwun has a hard splint on his foot, and I've been told he's not allowed to put weight on it for two or three weeks. So, in the next few days, we'll be testing out the crutch thing. Sonwun's mentioned that Uncle John used crutches when he hurt his foot, so he's anxious to give it a go.

As for me, I need to take a deep breath, be thankful for guardian angels and let him keep asking himself questions and experimenting to find answers. But I think I will answer just one for him. "NO, you are not going down the stairs with those crutches! Because I'm your father and because I said so."

Nature or Nurture?

So, in an effort to make life more "interesting," we've made a few additions to the family. Namely, Paws and Puffy. Two more cats.

That makes one dog, two kids and three cats.

Yeah, call me crazy. Shouldn't have had kids.

Just kidding . . . most days.

Paws arrived first. Not sure why we decided to get one. It may be just because the elder feline statesman, Oliver, needed a friend. It may be because the kids needed another toy. It could be my head isn't screwed on just right. It could be, perhaps, that my shoes are too tight. But whatever the reason, my head or my shoes, I stand here each day

Anyhoo, he was cute and he was free. So we got him.

Then, for reasons beyond my comprehension, we decided to get another. He too was cute and free.

Now, these two little guys have re-ignited in my brain the old nurture-vs.-nature debate.

I've always favoured short-hair cats. They not only minimize the shed factor and the fun of cleaning up hairballs, but I think they're smarter and nicer. And I've found this (especially the smarter part) to be the case with Paws (short hair) and Puffy (the puffy one).

But there is a nurture factor I can't ignore.

Paws came from a regular home. Puffy came from a, well, how to put this? He came from a mellow home. His human parents, um, er, uh, oh hell . . . they smoked a lot of weed. And I'm beginning to think ol' Puffy got his head stuck inside a bong at a very young age.

He falls down a lot.

When Paws discovered we had two active children, he quickly decided that the best place to sleep was behind the couch. When Puffy gets sleepy, he falls over wherever he is and passes out.

Paws strikes at his toys with the precision and skill of a practised mouser.

Puffy misses often. It's like he's seeing three of them, and hasn't figured out that you aim for the middle one. He also fights with unseen objects fairly regularly.

When Paws sees the boys coming, he moves quickly and with great stealth.

Puffy lies there and allows himself to be "steamrolled" by Sontoo. And he falls down a lot.

Paws is aware of his surroundings.

Puffy often gets his head caught in closing doors, reclining chairs, stair balusters and chair railings.

So I don't know. Nature or nurture? Is it the paws, or is it the puff?

If you wanna be a cat wrangler . . .

All righty then, let's talk baseball, shall we?

Specifically, let's talk about a kid's first experience with "organized" ball. And let's talk about a parent's frustration with said baseball. And just for fun, we'll use myself and Sonwun as examples.

We signed up a month or two back. It's free, and worth every penny. Well, it's free except for the $50 deposit we had to put down for a "uniform." $50?? Cool, I thought. Must be the whole thing with pants, socks and hat.

Um, no.

For the $50 deposit, we got a shirt. A big shirt. A shirt that comes down below the boy's knees. A shirt that would definitely fit Neomom and, quite possibly, me. There may be a five-year-old or two on the planet that could wear this thing, but I've never seen one.

So, expectations are lowered somewhat. But let's look at that, shall we? What exactly are my expectations, and am I aiming too high?

1. I expect the coach, or coaches, to know and be able to impart the fundamentals.
2. I expect the coach, or coaches, to have some ability to handle five-year-olds. And yeah, I know that's like herding cats. But if you sign up to be a cat wrangler . . .

And, based on those expectation, I hope my boy will have a good time and learn a few things.

That's about it.

So, now, let's talk about the past couple of practices. A couple of weeks back, it was "picture day." And on this day, an individual with a digital camera and dreams of big bucks shows up to record, for posterity, the beginning of a dozen baseball careers.

But, rather than set up, say, behind the backstop, out of the way, this Geddes wannabe sets up on the diamond, rendering it uninhabitable for the future Blue Jays' practice. And the coaches, apparently, decide the outfield area is not a part of baseball.

And so, while the photographer plods through a dozen photos, taking the entire hour, the kids play a rousing game of "What Time is it Mr. Wolf" while I grind my teeth in the bleachers - for an hour.

And so, having missed out on batting practice (his favourite) the previous week, Sonwun and I show up, on time, at 5:55, as usual, the following week. And once again we're alone with the coaches. Slowly, the others dribble in until about 6:15 when there are enough, apparently, to begin practice.

And batting practice is on the agenda. Naturally, the kid who arrived at 6:15 is the first to bat. He gets about 8 minutes of practice. By the time Sonwun's time at the plate rolls around, at 6:57, he gets about two minutes.

And I grind my teeth in the bleachers.

Oh, and one more thing, for now. When learning to bat, it's important for the young player to raise the BACK elbow in anticipation of the pitch. Raising BOTH elbows is counterproductive to the batting process and not one of the fundamentals of baseball. It is also galactically stupid.

Okay, I'm done.

And, in fairness, I should point out that Sonwun is enjoying baseball, as well as What Time is it Mr. Wolf. And I should note that the coaches are volunteers, who are taking time away from their lives to, um, coach, this team. And for that I am begrudgingly grateful.

But still . . .

1. I expect the coach, or coaches, to know and be able to impart the fundamentals.
2. I expect the coach, or coaches, to have some ability to handle five-year-olds. And yeah, I know that's like herding cats. But if you sign up to be a cat wrangler . . .

The good, the bad . . .

Once again I find myself returning to the keyboard after a long absence. Guess I've been a little overwhelmed lately getting my house in order . . . literally and figuratively.

But I miss writing and, eventually, am inevitably drawn back.

Since I last wrote, we've been through some good, some bad and some ugly.

So let's start with the ugly - cause it's forefront in my mind. I'll try to keep it brief.

A few weeks back, we learned that the "sciatica" pain that my dad had been experiencing for several months was, in fact, a cancerous tumour on his spine. To make matters just a little more ugly, we learned a few days later that this was the secondary cancer. The primary was found a few days later on his kidney.

The good news, I guess, is that treatment is moving along. Yesterday he underwent surgery on his spine to remove the as much of the tumour as was possible, and repair some of the damage it had cause to one of his vertebrae.

In a few weeks, he'll begin radiation therapy to for that tumour and a medicinal therapy to shrink the one on his kidney. So it's one day at a time.

It's hardly worth saying, but I'm running through a mess of emotions. I haven't sorted them out yet, so I'm not ready to put them to paper. But I'll say frustration is one of the key elements. I'm frustrated that this is happening. I'm frustrated that I live more than 2000 km away from Dad. I'm frustrated that I can't just pick up and go. I'm frustrated that I can't get information minute-by-minute, second-by-second. That being said, the information technology available today is providing a much speedier communication exchange than what was possible 20 years ago. And for that I am grateful.

So I guess that covers the bad and the ugly. At least as much of it as I can write about today.

So . . . the good.

The boys are happy and healthy and we're slowly making our house in Portage into our home. Sonwun is finally enjoying Kindergarten, Sontoo is getting out to playgroup now and again and spring seems to have finally arrived.

After a long western winter, the sunshine and melting snow is more than welcome.

As I type, I'm listening to the soothing sound of mournful wails coming from the playroom. The boys have discovered the joy and frustration of domino runs. And, as a big fan of Angry Birds, Sonwun is attempting to build frog castles at the end of each domino run. He is meeting with some difficulty. (For those of you unfamiliar, Angry Birds is a game for iPod/iPad fans. Look it up for more info if you care.)

Anyhoo, laundry awaits, supper awaits and I wait. Hoping for a really good spring and summer. Hoping for a lot of things.

And, hopefully, I'll write more tomorrow.

Gazintas and ICT

Before Sonwun started school, or even preschool, I used to joke about him "entering the system."

To me, that meant I was giving up control of my child's mind to the government, to the school board, the corporations, the special interest groups . . . "The System!" It meant that he would be fed the gospel of the day, outside of my presence. Okay, maybe I wasn't joking. It made me nervous.

But hey, he made it through preschool without being severely damaged. How bad could Kindergarten be? I mean, I remember Kindergarten a little. Seems to me we fingerpainted, spatterpainted, played in the sandbox, took a little nap on our mats. And that Michelle girl would chase me around at recess and try to kiss me. YUCK!

I don't remember report cards. They may have existed in Kindergarten way back then, but I don't think they did. Regardless, they exist now. And we just received Sonwun's first report from The System.

Most of it was as expected. He knows his numbers, colours and shapes. He's a little shy when it comes to classroom discussions, which is no surprise considering we moved here after the school year had begun. He can count to 10 just fine, but needs a little work on counting to 30. Fair enough.

But . . . and you knew there'd be a but, there was one entry on the Kindergarten report card that blew my mind. It was in the ICT section. That section, my friends, did not exist when I was 5. It's the Information Communication Technology section. Seriously. Sounds like something one takes at Devry Institute as part of post secondary education. But it's not.

It's a Kindergarten reality and, I'm sorry, but it is a clear example of "The System" at work in the schools. It makes me a little nervous.

There are three competencies my five-year-old is required to master by the end of the year:

1. Demonstrates critical thinking with ICT to plan and gather information— research, sorting, organizing and analyzing information.
2. Demonstrates creative thinking with ICT to produce and communicate information— making presentations considering audience appeal, using graphics, revising and editing products.

And finally, my favourite . . .

3. Demonstrates responsibility and ethics with ICT— showing respect, following copyright rules and division policy, considering effect on others.

Copyright rules?? Are you freakin' serious? This lesson plan brought to you by the Warner Music Group.

Call me old (fashion), but I'm turning my boy over to the system for a few hours a day so that he can learn the three Rs. NOT copyright law. He's 5 and I'm not looking for him to create an ad campaign for Sony by the end of the year, while respecting all copyright laws. I want him to read, to write and learn his gazintas (yeah, I'm that old, look up Beverly Hillbillies if you want to know what that means).

But apparently there is a whole lot more expected of five-year-olds these days. And my boy has entered the system.

On the positive side, I can have him proof-read my posts, and let me know if I need to add any TM notices for, say, using the word gazinta. He's in Kindergarten. He needs to know this. And he needs to teach me.

Have a great Tuesday.

Memo to Bell . . .

Dear Bell Satellite Service:

I'm not sorry I left you. We've had our problems, and I'm not going to go into detail right here, right now. Suffice to say, I'm not impressed.

My current problem, being the fact that you owe me about $150, is only serving to reinforce my pleasure in my decision to stop sending you money every month.

Three weeks ago, I phoned you to ask where my money was, after you sent me a new bill, asking for money for next month's service, when I terminated service with you a month prior. Your accounting system needs work.

You said you were pleased to help me with this problem, and that my cheque would arrive in two weeks. If it didn't, you told me, call back.

So I marked the day on the calendar. December 22.

And when the cheque did not arrive, I waited another week, to give you a little grace time over the holiday season. Merry Christmas.

As I type this, I am on the phone with one of your service reps. So far, I've been told that, yes, you owe me money and, "Definitely I will help you today."

Let me just say, that the only way you can help me today, my dear friend, is if you get on a plane with that cheque and deliver it personally. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure I'm only going to get another promise that it's coming.

But that, dear Bell, is not why I'm writing today. I'm writing today with a helpful tip (as I wait on the line for "three to five minutes" while your rep looks something up).

When I called this morning, I had to wait on the line for about 20 minutes. That's irritating. But what's even more irritating is your decision to interrupt the wait every 25 seconds (yes, I timed it) with the following message:
"We appreciated your patience. Please stay on the line and your call will be answered as soon as an agent is available."

You don't appreciated my patience, or you would not test it every 25 seconds with that annoying message. Annoying as, waiting 20 minutes, I had to hear it about 40 times.

Thus, it is not helpful. It's annoying as all hell. So stop it. Or cut your wait times down so that I may only have to hear it once or twice.

That's my suggestion. You're welcome.

Now, I'm still waiting for my friend, your representative with the thick accent, to reassure me that my money is on the way. Which, of course, does not help me today in any way shape or form. And, it's been longer than three to five minutes already.

So he's back on the phone . . . (pause while I pace and speak to this representative) . . . and now I'm really pissed off.

The good news, I guess, is that "Sabastian" is really sorry that the last customer service representative lied to me.

"I'm really sorry this situation," he tells me. "It's, like, no fair for the customer."

But the bottom line, Sabastian tells me, is that in three to five business days, I will receive a "final bill." One month after that, I will get my cheque. Considering my service with Bell ended November 1, this just sucks. But, according to Sabastian, there is nothing he can do about it.

Well, he could add $20 to the $150 they already owe me, for interest and inconvenience, but he can't just send the cheque. That's impossible.

Bell can beam a signal into space, bounce it off a satellite, send it back to earth . . . but sending me a cheque prior to my receiving my "final bill," . . . that's impossible.

Bell, I'm not impressed. Your customer service sucks. I only wish I was still a customer so that I could stop sending you money today and, when you call to complain, tell you that it's my policy not to pay bills until at least one year after I receive them. That's the way my system works. I'm very sorry, and I understand your frustration, but there's nothing I can do about it. And, when you don't get your money in a year, I'll apologize that I lied to you and promise to send it in another year.

What's more, I'll hire someone with a thick accent to tell you that "I'm really sorry this situation," and promise to file a complaint with management. I know that will make you feel better.

Good bye Bell. Never again.

Yet Another Milestone . . .

Okay, so let's talk about vomit, shall we? (If you're squeamish, or not a parent, go find another blog today.)

My sister once said to me that one of the biggest and best milestones she celebrated with her children, was the day the last one learned to puke in the toilet. I'm the father of two small boys. I get this.

When the stomach flu invades the house, I find myself grabbing sheets from the linen closet and covering the couches. In carpeted rooms, I'll even throw some on the floor. I can handle puke on hardwood, on linoleum and even on the walls. But on carpet, or furniture? Um, no thanks.

So, where am I going with this?

Well, Sonwun had his first friends-over birthday party Friday. And may I just say, WOW! What chaos! The violence, the insanity, the unbridled, unfiltered, unfettered energy of a group of five-year-olds needs to be explored, harnessed and used to power a small city. Again I say, WOW!

But I digress.

Sonwun stuffed himself with popcorn, candy and cake. He ignored any food of substance. Fair enough. It's one day, it's his party and he'll puke if he wants to.

And he did. With his belly full of garbage, he ran, he jumped, he wrestled, and he ran some more with his little friends. And then he ran to the bathroom and threw up. And may I just say, HOORAY! He made it to the bathroom and let fly where he was supposed to. That was a first and yeah, as big a milestone as birthday number 5.

Now, unbeknownst to me at the time, Sontoo observed this little ritual. At 2 years and 10 months, he was fascinated. But I was busy. I shooed him out of the bathroom, we cleaned up Sonwun and sent him back into action.

Fast-forward about 8 hours. It's 2:20 a.m. I'm awakened by the sound of retching. I fly out of bed and follow the sound. Been here before. I know I'm going to be changing sheets, pajamas, perhaps addresses.

I'm on my way to the boys' room when I look right. And there, kneeling in front of his little potty, is Sontoo. He's not even three yet, but he got out of bed, made his way to the bathroom and threw up in his potty.

Yeah, it still breaks my heart to see the poor little guy having to deal with this. But at the same time, I was so proud of him. After a clean-up, I took him back to his bedroom and checked the bed, the floor, the walls, the dog and the cat. All puke-free.

He had to get up two more times in the night, and I didn't get any sleep, but he made it to the potty each time. I'm thankful, grateful and proud.

Sonwun has taught Sontoo many things. Not all of them make me proud. Food-throwing, using the dog as a trampoline, flying off the coffee table . . . this one makes up for a couple of the negatives.

I know if you're a parent, you get this one.

Have a great Monday!

(And Happy 5th Birthday Sonwun. I love you!)

It continues . . .

23 Days to Go . . .

It's amazing how much Christmas changes when you have kids. And it's amazing how it changes year to year as these kids grow.

I mean, when you first have the kids, they have no concept beyond staring at the pretty lights and loving the sound wrapping paper makes when they smack it. And yeah, that's kinda cool.

But before long, you're making supper and all you can hear from the living room is "Holy Cow Daddy, you have to see this." And then the inevitable follow-up, "I need that."

Yeah, the marketing is well underway. And it's aimed squarely at my kids and my Visa card.

So we'll do our best to ignore that for a while.

Sonwun has also received his annual video message from Santa. And he was very excited about that. This, again, is something that was not available when I was a kid. Hell, it wasn't even available five years ago, to the best of my knowledge. But clever marketing folks have once again enlisted the Jolly Old Elf to sell product and increase website traffic.

But, to be fair, it's pretty cool. Click here to see Santa's message to Sonwun. WAIT! I just tested this and apparently it takes you away from the blog. So . . . finish reading, and then go back and click there. Thanks!

Neomom has been busy decorating the new house and, as usual, has done a fantastic job. We just await the tree. And I'm not allowed to get it until about two weeks before the big day. Why? Because they only last about two weeks before they start throwing needles faster than a Vancouver methadone clinic. So I'll wait.

And yeah, Neomom has fed her Christmas addiction, once again, with the purchase of one or two of those battery-powered goofy, gimmicky season-based toys. Don't know how else to describe them.

But every year, while we're out Christmas shopping, we inevitably separate. But from a few aisles over, I'll hear a tinny, computer generated voice, or music and then I'll hear Neomom laughing her head off.

No exception this year. Kissing penguins. Cute the first few times, but quickly loses its charm on the 4 or 500th time you hear it, as the kids just can't leave it alone. But check it out and, if you'd like to see what I mean, play it 500 times.



And when you add this one to the 8 or so others, all making their noises, well . . .

Have a great Thursday.

Superman to Dad o' Kitchen

A while ago, I wrote about Sonwun's obsession with Superheroes. Specifically, he'd latched on to the Justice League and, naturally, had renamed the family. He had decided that he was Batman, "the gweatest Superhero ever."

I, of course, was dubbed Superman, while Neomom picked up the title of Batgirl and Sontoo was renamed Robin. (At Halloween, however, Sontoo renamed himself "Robinson" as it apparently seemed more appropriate.)

Now, that being said, we have a new obsession in the house and we have all, once again, been renamed.

This time, it's Sontoo. And he's addicted to the Disney movie Cars. He could literally watch it over and over 24 hours a day if we let him.

So, Sontoo is introducing himself to the world as Sontoo McQueen, the World Famous Race Car. Honest. At the doctor's office yesterday, an older gentleman in the waiting room asked him his name. "I'm Sontoo McQueen, the World Famous Race car," he replied, very seriously. Always gets a smile.

I have picked up the title of Dad Doc Hudson. When he says it, however, it sounds like Dad o' Kitchen. Either one works, I guess. Doc Hudson, in the movie, is the once-great race car, now a cantankerous old fart, judge and doctor. I guess I can live with that. As for Dad o' Kitchen, well, I do make some mean pancakes.

Neomom is Momma Sally. Again, it works. The Sally car in the movie is the beautiful, intelligent little Porsche lawyer and hotel owner.

Now, there is a little controversy when it comes to Sonwun. Sontoo has decided he's Tow Mater, the backwoods, gap-toothed, tractor-tipping goofball (played by Larry the Cable Guy). But to his credit, he's also a loyal friend. I choose to think that is why Sontoo labelled Sonwun as such.

This particular naming, however, has led to a number of arguments at the dinner table, all reminiscent of the "Tastes Great/Less Filling" debate of the 80s.

"I'm McQueen, the famous race car."

"No you're not, I'm McQueen."

"I'm McQueen, the famous race car."

"No you're not, I'm McQueen."

"I'm McQueen, the famous race car."

"No you're not, I'm McQueen."

Lather, rinse, repeat ad nauseum.

This, I know, will pass. And I gotta admit, I kind of enjoy the roles my boys assign to me. I mean, c'mon, I've been Superman and now I'm a judge, a doctor and one of the most famous and successful race cars in Piston Cup history.

Who could ask for more?

Happy December, Happy Wednesday!

It begins

Well, good morning. And a happy Last Day of November to ya!

The silly season is well under way. Black Friday, Cyber Monday . . . marketing madness and suckers lining up to take advantage of the "deals." Merry Christmas.

Here in Portage, it's cold and it's snowy. That's more my kinda Christmas vision. And last night after supper we loaded pajama-clad Sonwun and Sontoo into the mini van of joy and headed for Island Park to see the lights.

As this is our first Christmas here, we were anxious to see this spectacle, touted as "Manitoba's longest running drive through light show," and "a winner of numerous provincial and national tourism awards."

Well who could turn that down?

Now we made one mistake here. En route to the longest running drive-through light show, Neomom's attention was captured by a giant candycane. "Turn here," she ordered. And, against my better judgment, I did.

And one turn later, we found ourselves on a street apparently inhabited by distant Griswold relatives. Four or five houses, it seemed, were competing for the highest electric bill in Manitoba, perhaps beyond. But WOW! The displays were truly awesome and I regret not having my camera and tripod at hand. Maybe I'll sneak back one night this week when the wind is down.

Anyhoo, after that, the "winner of numerous provincial and national tourism awards" was nice, but it paled a little by comparison. Don't get me wrong, it was well done. But it was apparent that many of the light displays were from years gone by. Many were also new and spectacular and overall it was a good time for the boys.

One criticism for the operators of the Island of Lights . . . don't tell me to tune my radio to a certain station, in order to get the maximum effect, if that radio station doesn't come in worth a crap while I drive around the island. I mean, I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas loses a little of its charm when it keeps cutting out and being replaced by a radio station playing Highway to Hell. Just sayin'

That being said, if you've got young 'uns and you're in the neighbourhood, it's worth the five bucks. It took us about 20 minutes to drive through the Island of Lights and see all there was to see. And most of it was pretty good. But while you're here in Portage, you should also check out the Griswolds. They're in the Koko Platz neighbourhood. Can't remember the name of the street, but just drive around a while, follow the bright lights in the sky and you'll find them. And they're free!

Happy Tuesday everyone, and welcome to the Christmas season!

Frustrating Day

Well, yesterday was a frustrating day. Had big plans for cleaning out the garage, building shelves, organizing . . .

And whilst I was doing that, the nice man from Bell Satellite TV would install the stuff necessary for my evening entertainment. Hell's Kitchen was on last night, and I was kinda looking forward to, if not seeing it, at least recording it for later viewing pleasure.

Now I've been a patient guy. My original date for the completion of the promised "smooth transfer" of my Bell services, was last Wednesday. But, as you know, my receivers and television were on a truck somewhere between here and Churchhill at that time. As such, I was told the friendly and helpful Bell installer would not come to the house, and I would have to wait one week.

Fair enough.

So yesterday, with my television and receiver firmly in place, I awaited the installer, who arrived a little later than expected. Fair enough. We're all busy.

A few things here you might not know about the "smooth transfer" of your satellite service with Bell. First off, the installer is apparently not allowed to set foot on your roof. Too dangerous. So if your dish is not near the edge or your roof, you may be expected to help out a little, if you want satellite service.

Second, your installer is allowed to drill one hole for free. Then he will charge you for any additional holes that need to be drilled to facilitate installation of the necessary cables in your home. Interesting.

Oh, and if you have any illusions about the cables being hidden in the walls, exiting at appropriate places with nice, neat face plates, forget about it. I was told that if you want that kind of thing, you need to hire an electrician prior to the arrival of your Bell installer whose job, apparently is to then screw the cable into the dish.

Anyhoo, back to yesterday. Behind the new house, two of my neighbours to the south have very tall poplar trees. These things are apparently directly in the path that leads from my satellite dish to the Bell satellite in space. As such, I can not get sufficient signal strength for a proper installation. (And that's without any leaves on the tree. Leaves, the installer told me, make things even worse!)

My installer friend discovered this by hooking up a small computer to the dish to gauge signal strength. He didn't need my TV or receiver to do it. My installer friend also told me that, maybe, if the dish was on the peak of the roof at the other end of the house, we might get a stronger, adequate signal. He was skeptical, as the trees in that sight line were even taller than the current ones. But, as he's not allowed to set foot on the roof, he couldn't really check it out.

He then suggested I talk to my new neighbour about, perhaps, lopping 20 or so feet off the top of a couple of his 80-foot poplars. Um, yeah.

Or maybe I could install a pole somewhere that would be tall enough to put the satellite dish in a position to see over those trees. Bell doesn't do that, nor does it manufacture or supply said pole, I was told. I'd have to do it, dig a trench for the cable and then set up another appointment for the installer to come back and hook it all up.

So . . . the installer left. I'm stuck with a useless Bell HDPVR, and another useless Bell HD receiver, both purchased in the last year and a half. I'm not happy about it.

So I call Bell customer service. No, they won't buy the receivers back. But hey, Bell, in its infinite graciousness, has waived the 30-day penalty for cancelling my service. Wow! The helpful customer service rep informed me that she would cancel the service, effective yesterday and I would receive a refund for the remainder of the month.

Um . . . wait a minute. I haven't had service since Nov. 1, when I moved out of the home in Thompson. What exactly am I paying for? Sorry, I was told, but I'd still have to cough up the dough for those 10 days.

I will admit, I became somewhat indignant. But I explained that, as I have not had access to the service for those 10 days, and as I had an appointment for installation a week ago, and as Bell was unable to supply service now, there was not a snowball's chance in hell I would be paying for those 10 days. After a little discussion, the customer service rep agreed.

She then told me that she and a supervisor had looked over the report from the friendly installer that came to my home, and they'd determined he might have done some things incorrectly. And maybe, just maybe, a more senior installer could still make this work.

She asked me what would be a convenient time for the senior installer to come out and have a look.

"Today," I replied.

Well, she said, the first available time is a week from today, next Wednesday.

So, we finished up our conversation, and I started looking at options. MTS TV, Shaw cable, Shaw satellite.

And, to make this long story just a tad shorter, I found Shaw satellite (whose satellite in space is in a more convenient, treeless direction) has a better deal anyway. So the Shaw guys are coming out tomorrow to install my new service. And once that's up and running, I will contact Bell, tell them to give the senior installer a rest and then put my receivers up for sale.

All of this, by the way, took up the better part of my day. Thus, my big plans for today include cleaning out the garage, building shelves, organizing and pausing at 11 a.m. to Remember . . .

Have a great Remembrance Day.

(Oh, and if you know anyone who's looking for a Bell HDPVR, let me know)