This is how the weekend sighs to a close.

I sit at the dining room table; the bright pastels of the table cloth beginning to soften as the sun lowers in the sky. I stare distantly across to the kitchen and watch the shadows dance across the pictures on the fridge in the failing light. My coffee has grown cold on the counter. Forgotten in mid-sip as something more pressing made it's presence known. The Gin Blossoms are on the radio. I have a pure moment of nostalgia and it makes me smile.

This is how the weekend sighs to a close.

I hear a bird sing high up in the tree; triumphantly challenging Mother Nature to throw one more fierce wintery blast its way. It is resolved in believing Spring is finally here. The sounds I hear out my back window would truly lead one to believe it is back. A dog barks a block away, announcing to all that this is his square of sidewalk and all passers-by must pay heed.

The house is quiet. The normal stomping of little feet and mad rush of animals; tails, fur and toys-----all are silent. The day has quieted them all away to various corners of the house where they lay curled up on beds and couches, lazily dreaming out the rest of the day.

I hear children playing games in the distance. They will undoubtly fight the inevitable dusk with every last ounce of wonder they can muster. But the time will come. The lights will yawn awake and the shadows will lurk back into our world. Sounds will dim as the smell of any number of wonderful meals draws these young adventerers back to familiar doorsteps and into the welcome warmth of a home.

The sun has burned its eternal ark across the sky; chasing its long lost love in the futile hope that their paths will cross if for only a few fleeting minutes. The constant chase that measures out our time on this blue marble.

A harmonica plays on the radio and I'm brought back to The Beatles. I can think of worse ways to end this perfect day.

This is how the weekend sighs to a close.

Why are the hot ones always crazy?

It usually starts sometime in the mid afternoon. She's in the kitchen keeping herself busy. She never really stops actually; doing dishes, making cookies, milling around. The music is playing on the stereo. Sometimes it's a familiar song, sometime it's not. But it doesn't really matter. She's dancing anyways. Well, not dancing in the pirouette, scissor-kicking across the floor type of way, but she still moves.

Suck it Crayola!

It's generally the same rhythm; left, right, left-left. Right, left, right, right go her hips in time to the music. When she's really into it, the mixing spoon sometimes becomes her microphone. She sings regardless of whether or not she knows the lyrics. She sings regardless of whether it's totally out of her range or not. She sings because it's who she is. Unabashedly unashamed. She is my wife and I love her for all of her subtle intricacies and full out bat-shit crazy moments.

I will never look at crayons the same way again thanks to her. Crayons; those simple little colourful sticks that kids use to scribble pictures. The ones that restaurants give out to shut your kids up for the 30 minutes of time it takes for your food to come and How-the-hell-can-kids-be-expected-to-colour-a-decent-picture-when-you-only-give-them-3-colours-crayons? Seriously. I will never look at crayons the same way again thanks to her.

Thanks to her flights of fancy and her 'crafty-eye' she decided that these crayons; the ones that are already moulded, formed and wrapped in a paper casing, should be unwrapped, broken into bits, melted down and remoulded in the shape of hearts. 50+ of them. Why? Why because it's Valentine's Day of course. Why else? To hell with you Walmart and your dime a dozen made in China cardboard Valentine's Day cards. She is Uber-Mom....hear her ROAR! Seriously....she will occasionally roar if it helps to emphasize her point.

She often talks to herself. I don't know if this is because she thinks that I don't listen to her or if it's because she legitimately hears voices. At least she laughs at her own jokes....or the ones the voices in her head tell her. Put it this way....she's never the only one in the room. On that note, she has conversations with our animals. Full out, "Can I offer you some tea and cookies while we chat" kind of conversations. Maybe the animals talk back. I'm not 100% sure but rest assured....the conversation never gets stale.

That's fear in my eyes as she points the musket at my head. Notice the smile.

I'm partially convinced that she is part cyborg. Not only because she had one child ripped out of her stomach and the other pushed out naturally without any drugs but because she often comes close to lopping off her fingers when cooking and she seems able to just shrug off knife wounds while arterial spray hits the roof. I'm not sure if she can take small arms fire. I'm not going to try and find out. She hasn't asked me where she can find John Connor so I guess I'm safe.....for now.

I will never meet another woman that can turn my head and then turn my stomach seconds apart from one another. On our wedding day I toasted her and exclaimed that I have never met a woman that can out drink, out burp and out fart me. She has still not let me down in any of these 3 categories. And yet I find myself staring at her during quiet moments of the day and marveling at how graciously and beautifully she is aging.

She doesn't often wear make-up, nor go out of her way to tease and tussle her hair and yet I'm drawn to her natural simplicity. Why are the hot ones always crazy? I know she's not a supermodel by society's standard and I wouldn't want her to be. I'm totally cool with girl-next-door sweetness. I'm taken by the freckles on her shoulders and her strawberry blond hair. You can't manufacture that stuff. It's just pure.

This is a woman that has driven to and from California to be with me in my quest for work. She has trusted me to travel from continent to continent even when the risks seemed high and the rewards were low. She puts up with my family-----that's says a lot for those who know me. She puts up with me.

So....is she a dancer? An artistic genius? An animal psychic? Perhaps a Terminator or a Super-model? I say put a check mark in "All of the above". She is my wife and I love her for all of her subtle intricacies and full out bat-shit crazy moments.



Love this shot.

Things I forgot about.....

“Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face.”-Mike Tyson

“Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face.”-Mike Tyson. I think Iron Mike clearly nailed it when he said those eleven words. They speak volumes in life as they do in business. Even the best strategists have to be prepared for the unexpected. When tasked with a project or challenge, you spend time prepping, researching and scouring facts and figures.  You analyze, speculate and coordinate your plan of attack; your masterpiece---your Magnum Opus. You step into that ring to show off your skills……

Then that left-hook comes out of nowhere and lands squarely on your jaw; leaving you punch-drunk and reeling.  ‘Where did it come from?  Who threw it?’  You stagger around the ring boardroom looking to regain your footing.  You start swinging wildly at your foe while frantically looking doe-eyed back to your team in the corner hoping desperately that someone will throw in the towel and call the fight.  Then you’re hit in the solar plexus with a flurry of jabs.

The wind rushes out of your body and stars start forming in the corner of your vision.  The room is quickly growing dim and your knees take on the consistency of cooked noodles.  You list dangerously to one side; hitting the ropes.  Then the canvass rushes up to slap your cheek as the ref gives you the 10 count.  That’s it.  You’re done.

Your Manager stands over you shaking their head.  “Next time you bring me a report on A,B,C you better bring you’re ‘A-Game’.”

Once the crowd has cleared, the blood has been washed from your face and the tape removed from your hands you start to really question what happened?   ‘How did I not see that coming? I’ve fought in this very same ring a countless number of times and I’ve always won.  How did my boss know about that gap in my report?  How did they know that I didn’t have the most up to date numbers from Marketing?’

In business, much like in boxing, practice and preparation will only take you so far.  You will learn to duck and weave, hook and jab with scary precision but once you step into that ring, anything could happen.  Your preparation only gets you so far before instinct and timing become your guides.

So how do you prepare for future fights so you don’t end up getting ‘rope-a-doped’?

1.      Get in the ring and start learning. If you’re not willing to look back over older presentations you’ve done or notes you taken to see where improvements could’ve/should’ve been made, then you might as well hang up your gloves.  You’ll get knocked around every time you get back in the ring and your opponent won’t need to make much of an effort to get you back on the ropes.  Make it a habit to review previous comments and edits to ensure you’re not simply rehashing old content or mistakes. Learn from your mistakes.

2.      Change up your sparring partners. Sometimes you need to break from routine in order to see what you’re capable of.  When you’re ready to get back into the ring pick a more difficult partner to spar with.  Take a few shots to your ego to see what your limit is.  Run your work past tougher critics within your organization.  Ask them to be ruthless and scrutinize every phrase, word and syllable.  In doing so, you’ll widen your view of what might happen when in the midst of a real bout.  You’ll quickly identify which punches will be thrown to simply ‘test your mettle’ versus those punches that are meant to knock you flat on your backside.  Watch and learn.

3.      Expect to get hit. If you go into that ring thinking that you’re untouchable, the shock of getting nailed in the face may be much more than you were initially prepared for.  Be ready to take a few shots.  Use this as a learning technique to gauge the strength and strategy of your opponent.  Use objection handling techniques such as rebuttals and redirection to keep your opponent on the defensive.  Use well mapped out facts and data points as your left hook and right cross to keep them on the ropes.

4.      Use your head as much as your fists. Learn how your opponent fights. Talk to colleagues or better yet to the fighter themselves and ask them what they expect to get out of your match. While it might seem odd to bring the fight to your opponent outside of the ring, good strategists will take every opportunity they can to learn from the best. When you get to fight night, watch your opponent.  Watch their body language as it’s one of the best indicators as to when they’re going to throw a punch. Listen to their tone, their phrasing and their intonation.  Subtle changes in the dialogue can be a warning sign. Remember their approach and their demeanor.  Chances are they won’t change their approach drastically during the fight. If you can anticipate their ‘swing’ then you can duck, dodge and deck ‘em with information before they even know what hit them.

For those of us in the business world I’m certain you’ve nursed more than a few black eyes and split lips in your time.  But chances are you were back in the gym the next day prepping for the next match. We take our lumps from time to time with a wry smile and the knowledge that these hits will eventually make us better fighters.  If not…..we can always take up Golf.

Veni, Vidi, Vici. Or more aptly: Bang-o-rang

I sat staring at myself in the bathroom mirror today.  More specifically, I was looking at all the grey hairs that have been springing up all over my head with as much gusto as you'd find emanating out of a High School Cheerleader.  "Yep....they're multiplying." I thought.

Soon enough, my George Clooney-esque salt and pepper look would make way for a full Ted Danson-like coif.  Don't get me wrong...the look works for him.  He is a powerful and attractive man and I have much respect for his follicles.

You see, I was beginning to feel my age.  At that particular moment, my mind chose that opportunity to wander away from work, responsibility and reality.  At that particular moment; standing amongst the soft whooshing noises echoing from the Urinals; I drifted.  My thoughts turned towards that gnawing question that never really goes answered:  Have I done enough?

At the end of the day, when I'm ready to shuffle off this mortal coil, have I done enough?


 I know...I know. You're saying 'Buddy, you're in the can. Not the best spot to have a crisis moment.' But I wholeheartedly disagree. The bathroom offers solace.

As my eyes wandered over the outline of my face, I took notice of the wrinkles that had slowly begun forming around the corners of my mouth, my eyes, my forehead. I saw my skin; sickly sallow (could've been the halogen lights above me) and I sighed.


'You're getting old.' my reflection said.

'So are you.' I snidely retorted.

'So what do you have to show for it old man?'

'I brought my bang-o-rang. Every chance I got.'




Now, for those of you that had a childhood and an imagination, the term Bang-o-Rang might hold some meaning for you. It does for me. Essentially, it's what the Lost Boys screamed out when they had amazing adventures with Peter Pan. Whether it be fighting the evil Captain Hook, or rescuing Tiger Lily from the Braves....Bang-o-Rang. Childish....but I love it. Bang-o-rang. Say it. Respect it.

As the seconds ticked by and my reflection decided to hang around until I provided him with sufficient explanation to validate my ridiculous claim, I started my response with an apology.

"I'm sorry I'm fat. Sorry I've always been and always will be a fat guy. Even if I lose the gut, I will still be jumbo size; the kind of guy that needs 'circus-tent' large when he shops for shirts. I'm sorry that my idea of working on getting a six pack involves me getting in my car and driving to the beer store rather than doing sit ups and crunches.

My weight has prevented you/me/us from doing many of the adventurous things that western society tells us we must do like climb mountains, run a marathon and go cliff diving. Magazines, TV, the Internet all push us to believe that unless we are active and dashing and rugged 24 hours a day, then we have failed....miserably. But I refuse to believe that I must accomplish these things to be happy. To do what I love. To be Bang-o-rang.


You see, these people they want you to be aren't real. The man standing in front of the mirror is. With all his faults and flaws and inconsistencies....he is R-E-A-L. He takes the last cold drink out of the fridge and doesn't replace it. He clogs the toilet from time to time. He makes his wife and kids sad when he loses his temper. But he is R-E-A-L.


And here you stand across from me.....asking me what I have to show for my years on this planet? I have grey hair. Each one represents an accomplishment in my inconsequential life. These hairs represent the countless hours I've spent helping businesses stay afloat. These hairs represent the people that I have influenced, angered, educated and loved. These hairs represent thousands of miles traveled; from the steps of the Taj Mahal to the shores of Malibu. These hairs represent the stolen moments between my wife and I when the kids are sleeping and the exhausting yet rewarding backaches, skinned knees and snotty noses that come with raising two wonderful children. They represent lust and hate and regret and redemption.

They represent me.

So what have I got to show for it? Bang-o-Rang. That's what.

So for those of you that have those quiet in-front-of-the-mirror moments where you find yourself critiquing the ever-aging landscape of your face and asking yourself "What have I got to show for it?" Run your fingers through your hair and smile at all those greys. They are what make you. Find your Bang-o-Rang.

I totally caught that snowflake on my tongue

Dear Old Man Winter,

  when did you officially start sucking?  I mean really?  At what stage in my life did I stop looking at you with fond wonderment and slight amazement and start looking at you like a blight on my life?  When was it that you started making my bones ache and my skin crack?

I look back on our time together as a child and I think of all the good times we had.  Remember that one time when you and I built that huge snow fort in front of the house?  It had tunnels and small windows for whipping snow balls at the enemy.  Man......we must've hung out in that thing for hours.  It had to have been hours 'cause I remember digging out a 'whiz hole' so we could take a leak out the side without ever breaking cover.  Nobody could find us in there....at least as long as they didn't track us back to that patch of yellow snow.

I remember snow days.  No, not just snow days but "You can't go outside because your eyeballs will literally freeze in their sockets" kind of snow day.  Those were the days that the car refused to start.  I can remember my Dad sitting behind the frosty wheel of the old Buick silently cursing you under his breath....the car sputtering and coughing; refusing to turn over.  I knew that if that old beast of a vehicle wouldn't come to life, then there was no chance I would be turned out into the cold to walk to school.  Thank you for that.

I remember snowball fights, and snow angels and finding the biggest snow bank I could possibly find and flipping off it head first into piles of soft, cushiony snow.  Growing up in the North, you really were a good friend.  After all, we really did spend a lot of time together.

But as I grew older, something changed between you and I.    While there were days that I enjoyed hanging out with you, I found that you started becoming more of an inconvenience and annoying more than anything else.  Like a dinner guest that just hasn't quite taken the hint that it's time to go....even as the host is standing there in their pyjamas looking longingly at the clock.



I'm totally kickin' your ass Winter!

 I think things really started to get awkward for us when you stopped helping me and started acting more as a hindrance.  Like that time you dropped 20+ centimetres on us and you brought along a huge dose of freezing rain for good measure?  Ya....pretty impressive.  Except you did this the day I had a major meeting at work and I was hours late for it.  Not cool dude.  In fact, that was pretty downright 'douchee'.

You see....I grew up.  You didn't.  My priorities shifted....yours didn't.  I guess to some extent I should've seen it coming.  I mean, over the years you've always been into the same things.  Every year it was all about cold and snow and sleet and freezing rain.  Sure you'd mix it up every now and then with a good ol' dose of frostbite.  But c'mon man.  Things got real boring real quick.  Our visits eventually always followed the same routine.
Me: "Hey Winter!  How have you been?  It's been about a year since we last talked."
You: "Hey dude!  Ya things have been awesome man!  You know.  Freezing people out.  Making cars slide into ditches....totally cool stuff."
Me: "Huh.  Isn't that what you did last time we talked?  And the year before that?"
You: "Well ya.  It's kind of my thing."

.............and so on and so forth for the rest of time........



Fat Kid + Momentum+ Slippery Hill=AWESOME!!!



Look, I'll admit that I still enjoy your company every now and then.  Summer's awesome to lounge around with and all.  But somedays, you just really need to jump on a crazy carpet and fly down a snowy hill at breakneck speeds.  Truth be told, I can't do that with the rest of your family.  So there's that I guess.

I hate the fact that you make me buy snow tires, and add more driving time to my commute and cause my gas bill to go up.  I hate that you freeze snot to my mustache and cause my lungs to burn when I walk outside in the morning.  It's not cool that you make me chisel my car out of a block of ice or break my back having to shovel tons of snow out of my driveway.

But I will admit that I still giggle like a little school girl when I catch that perfect snowflake on my tongue (I totally caught that snowflake on my tongue).  I still love the way my heart races when I jump on a toboggan and power slide down a huge hill.  And that bully inside of me still gets a kick when I land that perfect snowball across someone's face!  Especially when it's my kids.  Shhhh.....don't tell the wife.

Maybe we'll never get back what we once had.  I'm willing to accept that.  I willing to accept that we may need to change the rules of our relationship so that we're not at odds for the rest of my life.  I know I left your completely for 4 years.  California offered me an escape from you and your abusive tendencies but I came back.  I always come back.

Contrary to popular belief...I didn't have a gun to my head when choosing to leave this behind.

So let's do this right.  I don't like you anymore on a personal level but I respect you on a professional level.  My recommendation is as follows:

1. We will have contact with one another during the months of November through March.  Any correspondence outside of that range will result in cursing and swearing and shaking my fist at the sky.
2. You will give these dunder-head weathermen ample warning before you drop ass on us.  These guys seem to have trouble tying their own shoes most days let along predicting the weather.  They might as well "Consult the bones" rather than watching the Doppler radar.  It'd probably more accurate.
3. You'll keep your tantrums down to no more than 5 over the course of the season.  I don't mind an occasional flurry here or there....but 30+ centimetres and 6 feet of sleet and ice don't cut it anymore.

These are my terms.  You will accept them.   Only in doing so will you suck less and regain some of that wonder and amazement you lost when you refused to grow up along with me.  If our friendship meant anything to you.....you'll take those next steps to make amends.

I'm not crying....I'm sweating tears from my eyeballs.

Sincerely,

The Can-eh-dian Kid.

I'd like to introduce you to my new friend SARAH

I'd like to introduce you to my new friend SARAH.  She's going to be staying for a while.  She's moved on in to my house and now has her feet up on the coffee table as I write this.  It doesn't look like she's going anywhere anytime soon.  That's what she thinks.

Funny thing about SARAH is the longer she stays, the better the visit ends off.  But while she comes in raging like a bull in a China shop, she often leaves with hugs and kisses and a sense that all will be well.  But we're not at that part of the visit just yet.  My wife and I knew SARAH was planning on making an appearance sometime in the New Year.  In fact, we've been anticipating her visit for about 10 years now.  Her plans though really didn't solidify until about a year ago.  At that point, we started mentally getting ourselves ready for her stay.  But no matter how prepped we were, her arrival was still a kick to the gut.

  

Five days ago, my 10 year old son was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome; a mild form of autism.  In brief: 

Asperger syndrome is a form of autism, which is a lifelong disability that affects how a person makes sense of the world, processes information and relates to other people. Autism is often described as a 'spectrum disorder' because the condition affects people in many different ways and to varying degrees.

Asperger syndrome is mostly a 'hidden disability'. This means that you can't tell that someone has the condition from their outward appearance. People with the condition have difficulties in three main areas. They are:

• social communication
• social interaction
• social imagination.  (http://www.autism.org.uk/asperger)

While my wife and I had our suspicions; she much earlier than I, it was still a slap in the face when those words spilled out of the Psychologist's mouth.  "Your son has Asperger's Syndrome."  Somewhere in my mind an imaginary phone began ringing.

'That's SARAH calling.  She's finalized her travel plans and should be here later this afternoon.'

"Your son has Asperger's Syndrome."

'I'm not sure if we can handle having her visit.  There's too much to do.  She'll only get in the way of things!'

"Your son has Asperger's Syndrome."

Driving to work after the diagnosis was an odd experience.  My wife was on the phone with her Mom.  The radio was playing but I can't remember what was on.  I remember gliding through traffic and eventually showing up in the parking lot.  It was freezing outside that day and regardless of how hot the car heater was blowing, I felt cold....numb.  There weren't really any tears shed nor many words spoken in the car that day.  How do you react to something that you saw coming from 10 miles away?  Nope.  There'd be plenty of time for all of that once SARAH got here.

I finished work and was in the process of driving home with the family (they had picked me up after work) when SARAH showed up. I had stopped to pump gas when she tapped me on the shoulder to say Hi.  An overwhelming sense of sadness came flooding in; like a weight had been dropped into the pit of my stomach.  The first phase had begun.

I should clarify.  SARAH is not a person.  She is not even a She.  She is an it.  A concept.  An idea.  SARAH is what I use to classify the 5 stages people go through when dealing with a traumatic event or loss on some level.  Sadness, Anger, Rejection, Acceptance and Healing.  The time needed to move from phase to phase is as unique as the person who is going through the process.  Needless to say, SARAH has so far been able to manifest in her first two phases.  It really comes out of nowhere and there's nothing you can do but roll with it.

I've been waking up late at night (I'm not sleeping terribly well these last few nights) and ask myself....'What's next for our boy?' The long and short of it is that he will never be "cured" in the traditional sense.  There's no magic pill that makes it all go away.  At least that's what the experts say.  But I have hope.  Maybe that's SARAH making her presence known and showing me her "Rejection" side.  I denounce the possibility that there's no possibility for my son to wake up and snap out of it.  I think I'll probably always reject that idea on some level.

My wife and I are doing our best to begin to adapt our lifestyle, routines and household to this new and strange disorder.  While nothing drastic has changed, the diagnosis; the stigma around the word has us looking at the world through slightly different glasses than before.  We're taking steps to help him more with school, chores and social interaction in general, but it's an uphill battle.

Imagine a typical 10 year old boy; full of questions, mischief, humour and heart.  Think about how they thrive on social interaction; hanging with their buddies, playing sports.  Imagine them collapsing into bed exhausted at night to dream the night away after a hard day of playing.  Now imagine a child that has no 'off switch'; no ability to recharge because their mind never stops working….ever.  A child with all the hopes and ambitions as other typical 10 year olds but with an inability to read social cues; to understand why their behaviour and actions come across as odd or weird or disruptive.  An inability to make and maintain friendships.  There's no happy ending right now....only adapting and coping.

There's a whole community of Parents with Asperger children out there.  They affectionately refer to their children as "Aspies".  Cute.  But at this stage I find the name offensive and not much classier than calling someone a Retard.  They speak about the uniqueness of their child and how they will grow up to be Professors or Rocket Scientists or something else amazing.  But truth be told, not every child will be so lucky.  Some will never be able to live an independent life. 

We're extremely lucky that Evan will more than likely fall into the first category; able to utilize his amazing visual/memory talents for the greater good. This is a kid who at age 4 could memorize where all the objects were on a seek and find picture book.  With the proper social coaching and care he’ll not just be able to cope but thrive.  They say 1 in every 150 children in North American is affected by the Autism Spectrum Disorder.  Our boy just happens to be one of them.

My hope is that SARAH will eventually pack her stuff and move on to some other poor bastard family.  She's not really welcome here anymore.  In the meantime, we'll continue to learn and love as best as we can.