Took the wind right outta my sails....

The last few weeks have sufficiently managed to take the wind right outta my sails.  In shorter terms....I'm beat.  Physically, mentally, emotionally.  The last quarter of 2011 has been a real kick in the proverbial balls.  Having real balls, I can assure you, this is no less fun than an actual kick in the balls.  Let's start with illness and loss.  In the last 2 months I have either directly lost or know people who have lost people to an illness. 

I want to write a moment to talk about the loss of my dear Aunt Judy.  If there was one woman that I thought could grab Cancer (must remember to capitalize the 'C' as it is a Title referring to something of importance after all) by the throat and give it a dose of it's own medicine...it would've been her.  Growing up, I always knew that Judy had her finger on the pulse.  She was the "what's happening" Aunt.  The one that fought for social justice when she saw the lack of it.  The one who would be happy to sit quietly by while others' said their peace; but not out of apathy.  Rather, she was just biding her time.  Listening to all sides of the story before unleashing the 'fury' known as Her Opinion (again....capitalizing, but this time out of respect.)  Judy was never one to back down and she was also never one to put the cigarette down either.  Eventually, it caught up to her.  I'd rather not talk about her last few months on this mortal coil as many of us are still grieving and would rather remember her for her....and not for an illness.

As recent as yesterday, I friend of mine lost her husband of so many years.  The news as you can imagine, was met with heavy hearts.  Time and tide wait for no man.  Still, to see someone snatched away so quickly and watch the ripple effects it has on people around you, one might feel that it is truly the deceased that get off easy; no disrespect intended at all.  I only mean that the living are left to cope/manage/scrape by/move on.  A feat as big as a mountain and as vast as an ocean at times.  A task that one day I will undertake with the loss of my Parents, perhaps even my wife should fate choose take her before me.

"Took the wind right outta my sails"; such an interesting statement when one stops to think about its meaning.  It would imply that movement or progress has slowed or stopped.  That plans must now change and that courses must be corrected.  I suppose the comment is as relevant now to me as it was to the Sailors that first coined it.  I really have no idea if Sailors actually made that comment or not, but it sounds nautical, so let's go with it.  Note to the reader, I chose the word 'NAUTICAL' as 'SEAMAN-Y' just sounded so horribly wrong.

I suppose my momentum or forward movement has been slowing on the home front for a while now.  The Boy (my son) is not getting any better.  We're still waiting on word from CHEO as to when we can talk to a professional and find out what might be wrong.  In the interim, it is a daily uphill battle.  Emotional roller coaster sounds cliched, but it fits the bill.  I can't fairly describe the challenges my wife and I go through daily when dealing with the quirks and hiccups.  While we believe that it is Asperger's Syndrome, neither of us are Doctors (though we play that sometimes when frisky), so it's hard to peg just what's going on.  Until that time that luck happens to favour us and we're called up for assessment, we just have to keep our heads down, our patience in check and our glasses full of booze.  "We love you....but you drive Mommy and Daddy to drink.  Just thought we'd let you know." .....and the Parent of the Year award goes to......??!?!?!?!?

As for work......well.....I won't talk about work.  End of story.

Needless to say, I haven't been writing for a while.  I haven't been motivated to do so.  I've been seasonally apathetic.  My hopes, Loyal Reader...if you're still following along, is that when I do write, I add some form of entertainment to your day.  I write as a form of therapy.  It's cheaper than seeing a psychologist, has less side effects than taking medication and allows me to pretend for a few fleeting moments that I'm the next Stephen King.  That ain't happening...I know.  But seeing as how the Cops keep telling me that dressing up in a cape and tights and trying to rescue cats from trees does not make me Superman, Stephen King is a fair more manageable hero to emulate.

These last few weeks took the wind right outta my sails.  Maybe it's time to stop sailing and take the train.

laura kelly photography: trash the dress marathon

laura kelly photography: trash the dress marathon: Remember how it was practically Winter this past weekend? Perfect, just keep that in mind. There's something very special about being a br...

How the Hell am I still alive?

How the Hell am I still alive?

Seriously.  I look back at all the things I did as a kid (rope-tow on a BMX bike behind a high-speed moving vehicle, 30 foot death drops into huge sand pits, drinking water from the River,) and wonder how I ever grew up to be a reasonably decent looking guy (minus the beer keg gut) with all my fingers and toes.  I did some crazy shiz-nit as a boy.  More specifically, I'm surprised I didn't kill someone else around me.

Just one of my many stunts as a kid

Diving back into my brain-damaged archives (I took a few blows to the head as a kid), I thought I'd share a story from my youth that goes to prove the point that death will come for me one day seeing as I how I constantly and narrowly avoided it as a boy.  This is the second part of the letter for my Dad on his 64th birthday.

Backyard Ninja Wars

On a sunny afternoon, somewhere in the deep of a long forgotten summer a group of boys decided to pass the time by coming up with a new twist on the typical game of Cowboys and Indians.  Never content to simply run around the yard making Bang Bang noises while pointing our fingers at each other, we decided to take it to the next level.  Backyard Ninja Wars!

Grant and Graham Knight had the privilege of having a Dad who knew his way around a woodshop.  As such, they were prepared for this fight long before the rest of us.  Wooden Katana blades in hand, they rallied the troops (The Cornell Brothers-Travis, Aaron, Ryan and finally me) to take 15 minutes to prepare for battle.  This meant going home and getting our ‘weapons’ together.  Now, as mentioned, the Knight Brothers were ready to knock some skulls in.  The Cornells were also well armed having an arsenal of toys to choose from ranging from swords and shields to riot gear and sling shots.  And then there was me.

I was always more of an action-figure kind of guy myself.  He-Man, Thundercats, Star Wars.  The usual fare.  As such, access to weapons was a little scarce.  I remember clearly that you guys had a no guns policy.  In fact, at one point the policy was so strict, that I wasn’t allowed to even watch G.I. Joe on TV.  I had to sneak over to the Cornell’s house to watch it!  That plan worked really well…..until I got caught.

My Pets have Mad Skills

Back at the ‘ol Helmer Homestead’ I was desperately trying to piece something together before my time was up?  “Spatula? No.  2X4? Naaahhh. Dad?  What can I make for Ninja wars?”  I’ll give you credit.  You came up with a quick idea.  You drafted it up on a piece of paper, drew the specs right down and then sent me on my way to make it. My goal:  A Morning Star.  Death on a stick.  A solid metal spiked ball attached to a wooden handle by a foot long  metal chain.  Like I said.  Death on a stick.

Now, being a kid, I was curious and creative.  A dangerous combination in some cases…like this one.  I built that Morning Star.  Built it real good.  Using a spare piece of wood from the scary basement (the one with the furnace that would randomly go off and scare the Hell out of me when I was down there), some string, some tape (to hold it down) and a tinfoil ball with multiple nails driven through it.  Yep!  I was ready to go to war.

If it wasn’t for the fact that on my way out of the house I started that thing swinging and easily snapped it off the string; partially lodging it into the wall, I probably would’ve gotten out into the backyard and, plainly put….murdered someone.  But you were on your game that day and you stopped me cold in my tracks!  After explaining the potential repercussions of my actions, you said “Let’s see if we can make this a little safer.”

So with a pinch of ingenuity, a dash of madness and a liberal dose of “I’m not really sure what I’m doing but I’m not going to let the kid know that” you made me the eco-friendly version.  One stick?  Check.  One length of string?  Yes.  One potato and some tooth picks?  WHaaaaatttt?? “Now go play and try not to kill anyone!”

So off I marched into the heat of battle; spiked potato held high knowing that I was a Ninja Warrior.  Sure the other kids beat my ass (seriously, I got my ass handed to me) but I certainly had the most original, if not the most ridiculous weapon in the group.  All thanks to my Dad.

Paul Bunyan was a pushover

Recent, my Father celebrated his 64th birthday.  I've never been good for giving gifts; macaroni and glitter picture here, hand print ashtray there.  You get the point.  So to avoid another "Let's throw the gift in a closet and forget about it moment", I thought I'd write a letter to my Dad to share some of my favourite memories from my childhood that involved him.  Here now is the first tale:

Not Jeremy Landry but still bloody scary

'One day, while playing in our yard on Beavis Terrace, I had a run-in with the local bully; Jeremy Landry.  I‘ll always remember that kid!  Red Hair, freckles and an attitude similar to that of a Rhino with a toothache.  He was bad news!  On this particular day, the bullying was really bad.  I tried to get away, but Jeremy and his cronies followed me into our backyard.  I remember saying something to the effect of “You better leave me alone or I’ll go get my Dad and then you’ll be sorry!”

 Those buggers laughed!  Jeremy; through a mouthful of crooked teeth (man he was ugly as sin!) sneered at me and said “Oh Ya?!  Well, we’ll just climb up the tree here.  There’s no way your old man will be able to get us then!”

So I went inside….tears streaming down my chubby cheeks, my nose running.  I probably looked like a real mess.  I remember telling you what had happened and I remember you looking out the window and thinking quietly for a moment before leaving the room.   Well!  That’s when all Hell broke loose!  

The next thing I remember was you flying out the back screen door, down the porch steps and out into the yard.  The shock of seeing you come sprinting out was one thing.  Those kids weren’t totally prepared for that.  But the look of sheer terror on their face when you brought out THE AXE was an image I will gleefully cherish for the rest of my life!

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! “Ready to come down now boys?” WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!  “How about now?!”

Gravity is a wonderful thing.  In most cases, you rarely have to do any work besides sit back and watch things come tumbling down.  Case in point; the Boys in the Tree!  I’m not sure what happened to Jeremy Landry and his gang, but I often wonder about that old tree.  Whether it still bears the wounds of a neighbourhood war from long ago. 

Thor has his hammer.  Captain America has his shield.  My Dad, had The Axe."

Tights don't work for everyone

Has it really been that long?

Has it really been that long?  Can it be that my wife and I have been married for 11 years?  It seems like only yesterday I was proposing to her in our tiny 1 room basement apartment in Toronto.  I can still hear the clicking of high heels and the stomping of little feet on the ceiling above us.  We had a Jewish Orthodox family (complete with a Rabbi) living upstairs.

Two kids fell in love one sunny afternoon

I had been planning the proposal for a while.  I had gone ring shopping after classes when possible.  I was still attending University at the time and was living off of a starving student's budget.  This meant working ridiculous hours at a Second Cup coffee shop, drinking limitless cups of the stuff and scarfing down day old baked goods that were destined for the trash, just so I didn't have to buy groceries.  Every dollar went towards the ring.  Eventually I settled on Birks.  The ring was perfect.  The sales person was awesome and I was approved for financing.  Yep.  I was growing up.

Sometimes we get a little weird

I was not uber-creative with my proposal.  I didn't have a choir sing to her nor did I have a plane sky write my undying affection for her either.  I was a traditionalist.  So I stuck with a traditional method.  Leaving my classes for the day, I stopped at a small florist on Bloor Street and purchased two dozen long stem red roses.  I then hopped on the TTC (subway for all the non-Torontonians out there) and took the longest ride of my life.  45 minutes of heart pounding, palm sweating, stomach churning terror.  "What if she says No?  Holy Shit!  What if she says no?  I can't take the ring back can I? What'll I tell that nice sales guy?  What'll I tell my friends that I've been bragging to?  What'll I do with all these flowers?  Give 'em to the homeless guy on the way home?"  I kinda didn't have a plan 'B'.  Crap.  I'm sure people riding the subway thought I was clearly nuts.    I mean, here's this dude riding by himself; flowers in hand, talking passionately to himself (rocking back and forth) and occasionally looking around wildly for someone...anyone to offer some advice. Mind you, that's not that uncommon to see in a city like Toronto.  Hooray for mental illness?

I got off the bus and walked the remaining few blocks to our tiny closet apartment and just stood staring at the door.  I knew she was in there.  All  I needed to do was turn the handle.  But my hands wouldn't move.  I just stood there....breathing.  The window was open in the basement and the soft light was glowing from inside.  I could smell dinner cooking and hear the radio playing quietly as she sung along.  I thought to myself "This is where I want to be.  Right here...with her."  I turned the handle and walked in to her warm smile.

She asked me what the flowers were for.  I rambled off some inconsequential line or two hoping that my shaking hands didn't give away my intentions.  I told her to look how gorgeous the bunch was (having hidden the ring box inside the bushel).  I remember her opening the paper packaging to look inside and her eyes becoming wild with alarm.  "What is that?" she asked.  "What...is....that?" 

I got down on one knee and looked up into her smiling/crying eyes and asked her to be my wife.

Has it really been that long?  We have had tremendous challenges and tremendous successes in our 11 years of marriage.  We have been blessed with 2 beautiful, if not fiercely independent children, a strong sense of family and a grounded outlook on life and love.  I am a better man today then I was 11 years ago because I have a wonderful woman in my life.  I'm so very lucky to have her as my wife.....and she likes to remind me of that fact every time she gets the chance!

Pretty lucky dude I am

Happy Anniversary Darling.

Today I wore an orange shirt

Today I wore and orange shirt and didn't give it a second thought.  It was hanging there in my closet beside all my other shirts.  Cleaned, pressed and ready to wear, I slipped it off the hanger, onto me and headed off to work.  When I arrived at work, I signed in to my computer to check the news before my day started.  I like to read the news with my coffee before the madness begins.  I was settling into some mundane article about who know what when my wife 'pinged me' on Messenger. Three words flashed across my screen without prejudice:
"Jack Layton died." 
http://www.ctv.ca/CTVNews/TopStories/20110822/ndp-leader-jacklayton-obit/

I sat stunned for a second before I numbly replied.  I had known that he had been ill.  Hell, every person that watched a Canadian News channel had known that Jack had been ill.  He had been fighting an extremely difficult and very public battle with Cancer for months.  His campaign, in its initial stages, had been overshadowed by this serious health scare.  But with determination, vigour and an unapologetic moustache, Jack soldiered on and went to lead the NDP to a political victory, the likes of which this country had rarely seen....
...until the summer.

With Jack largely out of the public eye since the last election, it came as a crushing shock to his supporters when, at a press conference he called, a gaunt, frail-looking Jack Layton announced that the Cancer was back and he would be temporarily leaving the NDP to seek medical treatment.  And although he was positive that he would be back on Parliament Hill come September, deep down, most of us knew this might be the last we saw of Smiling Jack.

A Man of the People

I never had the privilege of meeting the man or the moustache.  When I was younger, I didn't even find him that appealing as a political candidate.  Used Car Salesman.  I think that's what I referred to him as at some point.  But it wasn't until I had been out of the country for several years that my view of the country started to shift.  I saw, what I considered to be, social inequities and injustices happening at the highest levels of our government.  I saw a right wing government being lead by a Man with his own Agenda and a long term vision that included increased military spending, reductions in the health care industry and a drive to separate the classes as far apart as possible.  I wanted/needed a better political solution.  And in marched Jack and the 'Orange Crush'.

Call his political views leftist, socialist, wispy even but he was the counter-weight to Harper's Evil Empire.  He kept the see-saw balanced.  Canadians had been constantly pushed into the corner and told "You have 1 choice or suffer the consequences in the next Federal Election".  If there's on thing that we Canadian are it is certainly NOT PUSH OVERS.  Push us, and we will push back.  While we are a peaceful people, our hands were armed with pens as we made our marks on the ballet boxes, helping push the NDP and Jack Layton into the official role of Opposition.  The Orange Crush swept across the country and left it's mark.  The future of the Party now lays in question with Jack's unfortunate passing.  I can only hope that those who voted Orange in the last election recognize that the man made the speeches, but the party makes the changes. "Hope ... is what drives New Democrats," Jack said, adding that his party "will always be the party of hope."

Today I wore an orange shirt and didn't give it a second thought; until I heard the news that a strong Political Leader, a Husband, a Father and an all around Man of the People succumbed to an illness that knows no colour, creed or political allegiance.  Cancer is a Bastard.  Jack Layton was another statistic, but by no means was he Cancer's Hostage.

"My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.
All my very best,
Jack Layton"

Read the full letter here: Jack Layton's Letter to Canadians
Rest in Peace Jack. 

I'm good right? Please validate me......please?



I'm good right?  Please validate me......please?  What makes us 'good' at something?  What makes us rise above the rest and exemplify the best behaviours and best actions?  What makes me a person to look up to; a role model if you will?  I hardly think that I'm qualified enough to be considered a role model, yet here I am.  Helping to raise two children who, through sheer luck, divine intervention or just some really shitty cosmic lottery, have landed on having me as their Dad.  Poor kids.





In the last few weeks I've had people tell me that I'm really good or great at something.  I've been told I'm one of the best Trainers so and so has ever had.  I've been told that I'm a great listener.  I've been told I'm a good Dad.  All flattering really...but I still feel that these claims are unfounded; baseless even.  What grounds are these compliments being measured against?  I would assume in some cases past personal experiences. But how is that 'quality of character' measured? 



Al Bundy.  The Poster Child of Greatness



I always tell people that I don't consider myself a Great Trainer (even though I have the awards and recognition to validate that I am).  Rather, I tell them that I am a Good Trainer because the minute I believe I am great, I stop growing in my profession; I peak. I'm too damned young to peak.  I often wonder if I should apply that same philosophy to my Parenting and my Husbanding (is that a word?  Husbanding? I don't know.  Fuck it. It is now). 

Not to undersell myself but if I think that I'm a Great Parent or Husband, will I become sloth-like?  Complacent even and stop working towards always getting better?  I've worked too long and too hard in this life to simply accept that I can't be better than this.  Besides, my wife would murder me if I just settled for a working in a new butt grove on the couch while breaking the world record for seeing how many cheesies I could stuff in my mouth at once.  No no.  I'm bound and determined to always work towards the stature of being "great" in my personal and professional life with the full knowledge that I may never reach that goal.

My Parenting Skills are Awesome!

I'd like to think that I'm doing a good job so far when it comes to raising the monsters children and entertaining the wife.  I mean, the kids aren't out lighting fires and robbing banks....yet.  And my wife still seems relatively happy with my antics. I mean, I cook, I clean, I worship the ground she walks on.  I really don't expect much except for the occasional slap and tickle, so I'm pretty low maintenance.  But there's always that nagging little voice in my head that keeps say "I'm good right?  Please validate me......please?"



My greatest fear is that one day someone will call me out as a fake; an unqualified, you have no clue what you're doing F-A-K-E and I'll not be able to prove them otherwise.  Anyone with kids knows what I'm talking about.  There will come a day when your child realizes that a large portion of what you said to them was pure and simple bullshit.  And you will stand there with a made-up grin and simply say "I'm sorry".  A Great Dad would have his apology speech all planned out.  Screw you Ward Cleaver!  Screw you.  But for the rest of us schlubs...errrr....I mean Good Dads, we can only hope that our kids will accept ice cream as a form of apology.  Or at least be smaller than us so we can still beat their asses for being disrespectful!  Kidding....Children's Aid....kidding.

Thanks Ward for making the rest of us Dads look like jerks.

I'm not really sure I can answer what exactly makes a person great at what they do or who they are.  I suppose if you're not in jail, driving a big ol' van with Free Candy written on the sides or using your children as monkeys in an organ grinder show, then you're well on your way to being a "Good" person.  If you said "Well...there was that one time...." seek professional help and then reassess your life.  For those of us that question our worth day in and day out, don't listen to the voices in your head.  Realize that the difference between good and great is marginal and subjective.  If the people in your life love you for you and what you do, then congratulations....keep up the good/great work!



What's the worst that could happen?