Keeping Up With the DICKs

What would a crazy Old Man be without the occasional rant about his neighbours?

Let me tell you something…I've been in my new place just 11 months, now, and already I've discovered that most of my neighbours are idiots.

Here is list of suburbanites that I've inadvertently surrounded myself with:

#1 - The husband speaks only to me and will not acknowledge my wife. Family is constantly in a hurry and/or late for stuff; possibly because any conversation with the wife lasts a minimum of 25 minutes. They always state how gossiping is bad for community morale, yet they are the first to come running over asking "what did they say?" if they spot us talking to one of the other neighbours.

#2 - Cigar smoking chimney of a man -- and the prevailing winds are ALWAYS blowing this way. His wife hasn't smiled in 30 years. They blast hip hop and rap so loudly that it echoes throughout the subdivision. Two kids: One is 14, the other is 5….(I'm thinking: "oops") They like to yell at both.

#3 - Wants a pool. Puts up the fence first! Asks me to share the cost of said fence (of course, it's the Rolls Royce version), but turns me down when I offer less than 50% (because I don't want a fence). A week later, he comes back to accept my offer. And within 12 hours, the posts are in the ground. Yeah, that fence was going up on the property line whether I liked it or not.

#4a & b - Brothers living next door to one another. Neither ever wears a shirt or shoes or speaks to anyone other than each other. 4a's wife is a blonde bombshell. 4b's wife has been into the magic mushrooms a little too long -- loopy as a froot (and she's named after a tree!). Both had babies within 2 weeks of each other, but I've never seen the two children at the same time. Verrry suspicious, indeed… AND, 4a doesn't recycle. Anything. Ever. They may be next on my list for a protest.

#5 - Retired couple. Fancy cars. Perfect lawn. Perfect landscaping. Yeah, there's always one of these in every 'hood. Standard greeting to everyone is: "Hi, we were the first house in the area. We're not putting up a fence." Uuuhh…okay…

#6 - Young couple who apparently believe we're living on the Equator. Their airconditioner is constantly running. And I'm so glad they selected the model with the soothing turbo-prop Cesna engine.

#7 - They seem friendly enough -- for a 109 year old Asian couple who don't speak English.

And then there's me. I'm nice when I need to be. I try to keep my domestic life inside the house. I don't bother anyone. You know…If more people were as perfect as me, this would be a much better place to live, don't you think?

The area is full of kids, predominantly in the age range of 6-9 years and their backyards contain play structures that make Canada's Wonderland look tame. And it always seems to be that if little Johnny has a 10-foot slide with Cirque du Soleil trapeze bars, then within a week, little Suzie will have have the same thing, PLUS an Olympic-sized trampoline; and then a week after that, the Ritalin Twins will have all that and a water park with a lifeguard. Yes…All in a 40 X 20 yard.

My little creature seems completely satisfied playing on the driveway with a broom, some chalk and a water gun. Cost me a grand total of 9 bucks and I don't have to worry about broken necks. And on top of that, when he's finished playing with those things, I can make use of them all, rather than watching them decay in my un-tended back yard. I'll use the broom to sweep the driveway, the chalk to draw the outlines of the kids that have killed themselves on the monster play structures and the watergun to squirt the strays that wander onto my property (dogs, cats, children).

Perhaps I shouldn't complain so much. Most of us are DICKs (Double Income, Coupla Kids) and we're all just trying to live that elusive (i.e. expensive) North American dream. The neighbourhood is clean (so far), there's no crime (yet) and there's lots to do (if you have a car).

But optimistic ranting just isn't as much fun. Plus, I'd have to rename the site to "toomuchhappiness.blogspot.com" and I'm too busy spying on 4a's wife to have to figure out how to do that.

Life Lesson # 6: You Don't HAVE To Listen To Your Boss

This one is dedicated to a couple of my close, personal blog friends. You know who you are...

Let me set the scene for you:
- I've just graduated university and landed my first job, which, amazingly enough, happens to be in my field of study
- The job is in the big city and they want me to start right away
- Luckily, my university roommate and his parents live in the area and they offer to take me in until I can find a place of my own.

And now our story begins. Get comfy, because this could be a long 'un.

It's a surprisingly hot day in May when I show up for my first day of work with an environmental engineering company. I've been instructed to "dress for the dirt" because my first assignment is to join a crew of guys to plant terrestrial vegetation around a wetland. I've got an old T-shirt, a pair of doctor's pants (O.R. scrubs), a hat, work gloves and work boots.

I am SO ready for this! Look out world, I'm kickin' ass and takin' names!!

The morning passes without incident. By 2pm, I'm as gross and grimy as Kid Rock looks. The crew supervisor comes to me and suggests I hook up the watering gear and start watering what we've just planted.

Looking at the hose, I can't help but notice that it is of approximately 1920s vintage. The connections don't quite fit right, and there are more holes in it than OJ Simpson's testimony. The supervisor notices my hesitation and offers this advice:
"You're gonna get wet, ya know. If you've got boxers on, I might suggest you set your pants aside so that you have something dry to ride home in. Your boxers will just look like shorts."

Remember, this is my first day of my working career. I wasn't about to disobey a suggestion from my new boss. Plus, it was just a bunch of guys and we were in a relatively secluded area (yes, I realize how that sounds. Don't even start, franko...). I didn't exactly have boxers on, though. They were the cross between boxers and briefs -- clingy like briefs, but they came to my mid-thigh.

"What the hell?" I say to myself and step out of my scrubs and started watering. I got wet. And muddy. But I didn't care. I was doing a service to the environment and to the community and so what if I had to expose my lilly-white toothpick legs to do it? I wanted to show this company that I was dedicated and willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done.

At the end of the day, we all packed up, climbed into the truck and headed back to the shop, which was a 45 minute ride. On the way, we stopped to fill the truck with gas and because I was sitting at the window, I was elected to get out and pump. And go in and pay.

Back at the shop, I unloaded the truck. I felt so good. I was hot, tired, filthy and completely exhilarated.

Jumping into my car, I head back to my friend's place (40 minute ride). I park, walk up the pathway, past the garage and round the corner into the backyard where my friend's father yells out "Jesus Christ! What the hell kind of job are you at that you come home with no pants on, boy??"

Oh, and I should mention that they were hosting a BBQ for a bunch of their neighbours.

Honestly...That was the first moment I realized that I had no pants on. I hadn't had pants on since about 2:30pm. It was now after 6pm.

Yes. Nearly 4 hours; completely oblivious to the fact that I was wandering all over creation with no pants on.

What's weird is that, aside from my friend's father, nobody else that I had spoken to even acknowledged the fact that I was standing there in my gitch. None of my coworkers. The gas station guy. Other people at the gas station. The admin people back at the shop.

So remember boys and girls: Just because your boss says it's a good idea to take your pants off, it doesn't necessarily mean that you should.

Unless you see it as a means for career advancement.

Hey, now that I think about it, I became a crew supervisor in under a year. Hmm... I think I'd rather believe it was because of my skills and work ethic, as opposed to my willingness to drop trou' without question.

Why?

Let me tell you something…I've seen some strange behaviours in people and I want to know why. Here are a few that I'd like to throw out there for discussion amongst yourselves.

Why do people think that by repeatedly pushing the elevator call button, it will arrive any faster? After pressing the "Up" or "Down" button, do you think the elevator says to itself (in the typical Eyore monotone voice) "All right, all right. I'm coming."? But if you press the call button a thousand times in rapid succession, the elevator says (sounding more like Robin from Batman and Robin): "Holy Hannah! This guy needs a lift right away! I better get on my horse!" ? Listen; press it once. You don't need to remind the machine that you're waiting.

Similarly, why do people insist on pressing the crosswalk button a hundred times or even feel the need to lean on the button? Again…press it once. The thing knows you're there. Pressing the crosswalk button (I'm talking about the Walk/Don't Walk signals) does not change the traffic lights. Think about it for a second…Can you imagine the mayhem that would ensue if every crosswalk button instantly changed the stoplights?

Why do people walk up or down escalators? If you want to walk up or down the stairs -- TAKE THE STAIRS!! My assumption is that these are folks who only want a minimum amount of physical activity. Taking the stairs is too much work, but just standing on the escalator leaves them with a slightly guilty conscience. The whole premise behind an escalator is that you get a leisurely transfer between floors, so get on, stand still and just enjoy the damn ride.

Why do people throw money away? I don't mean in the abstract way such as sinking welfare cheques into racetracks and casinos. I'm referring, literally, to the act of physically throwing money away. Pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters (and the occasional one and two dollar coins for us Canucks) tossed into fountains. I'd be willing to bet that millions of dollars end up sitting at the bottom of decorative fountains around the world. A quarter here, a quarter there -- may not seem like much, but it doesn't take long for it to add up to a load of laundry at the local Rinse 'N Fluff. From there, it's not too difficult to get it to add up to a beer at the pub. And for the love of Pete, don't throw away beer money. Hey…If you're so rich that you can afford to toss your money away like yesterday's trash, let me give you my address; send it here and I'll dispose of it for you.

Why do people feel it necessary to hold records? For clarification, I'm talking Guinness World Records, not the vinyl LP's. Most worms eaten in 30 seconds. Longest ear hair. Longest fingernails. Most pierced woman. Seriously…Who gives a crap? Is your life really going to be that much better if you can put "Current world record holder in…" on your resume? Every day I break my own personal record of Most Consecutive Days Alive. That's the only record I care about.

So? What do you think? Any insight you can provide would be most appreciated. I'm going to head to the mall where I can watch people jackhammer the elevator button, do the escalator like a stairmaster and throw coins in the fountain. Maybe I could get the record for most idiots spotted in a single location...

(Incidentally, for those of you who do give a crap, the current records for the aforementioned stunts are: 200 worms, 5.19" ear hair, 24' 7.8" total length of fingernails, 720 piercings)

The REAL AdScam

Hey, remember when you used to paint eggs for Easter? Lines, dots, squiggles and swirls. And the truly talented chumps… um… I mean…artistes could draw ducks, bunnies and chicks on them? (I could draw chicks, too, but they weren't the cute, fluffy poultry kind.)

Wasn't that fun? Well it seems that some meathead over at CBS has decided to ressurect that long-lost art by placing promotional slogans for their TV programs onto eggs! I haven't heard whether they'll be using pastel colours or not, but I somehow doubt it.

Let me tell you something…If this turns out to be my last blog post, it's because I've gone on an anti-advertisement rampage and have been sent to jail or sent to the funny farm.

Advertising on eggs? Just saying those words causes the vein in my forehead to throb. Is it not enough that a 25-minute primetime program, (which is what we used to get 15 years ago), has turned into a 60-minute marathon of drivel comprised of roughly 20 minutes of actual show and 40 minutes worth of corporate pandering? Just how many times do they think I need to be reminded "You're watching CBS!" ?

Is it not enough that when I go to a movie that is scheduled to start at 7pm, that really means 7:30pm because of the damned commercials we're forced to sit through -- and this after remortgaging the house for tickets, popcorn and a drink??

Advertising is everywhere -- TV, radio, Internet, email, cell phones, billboards, magazines, newspapers, telephone poles, sporting events -- you can't go 3 steps without seeing some corporate logo, loitering around like a prostitute looking for her next trick. And I don't even want to get into the ridiculous amount of product placement that goes on in TV shows, movies and the ultimate in advertising whoring: tattooing on willing participants.

On top of that, the ads these days aren't even remotely intelligent. One of the worst is of the two girls eating Aero chocolate bars, talking to each other with their mouths full, orgasming over how wonderful the bubbles are. A few months later, I see an ad with two women sitting in a kitchen, mooning over how smooth their ice cream is. A little research reveals that the ice cream and the Aero bar are made by the same company: Nestle. Those commercials tell me that Nestle needs a beating.

And if I have to hear that f*cking commercial that consists of a thousand f*cking phones clicking shut, the next click that the f*cking whack job who came up with that f*cking idea hears will be that of a gun. Deep breath in...Hold...And release...Deep breath in....

Some of the proposed slogans that are to be printed on the eggs include: "CSI cracks the case..." and "Catch the egg-citing drama on Numb3rs…" What wit! What originality! What complete and utter monkeyshit!

Not only am I continually assaulted by ads that have been pulled from a marketing exec's ass, but now I'm soon to be subjected to those pulled from a chicken's ass. I wonder how long this campaign will last before people (such as myself) chuck the ads at their office windows?

(Check out HERE and/or HERE for a sanctimonious plug for some folks with the right idea.)

(Note: The title is a bit of an inside joke relating to Canadian politics and has nothing to do with this post)

Get Your Hands Outta My Pocket

Have you ever come to the realization that you may be in the wrong industry?

Let me tell you something...Whoever came up with the concept of "insurance" was a certifiable genius and I'm not sure why I didn't venture into that field, myself. Probably because I'm just certifiable without the genius part.

Think about it: you give some money to a guy who basically says "I'll hold onto the cash until you need it". Then, the day you need it, he says one of two things:

1) "I'm not giving you your money back. Now pay me a shitload more." or

2) "Here's some of your money. Now pay me a shitload more."

See? Genius! Insurance companies should be called "Hoovers" because they suck so bad.

And I find it so insulting when the company decides to "thank me for my patronage". Wow, I've been giving you thousands of dollars ever year for 16 years and you thank me with a $20 calendar?? At the end of the year, I wrote them a detailed letter expressing my disappointment at how ineffective the calendar was at doubling as toilet paper.

Believe it or not, but there are companies out there that actually insure insurance companies! Man, I wish I'd gotten in on that.

Banks are also notorious for the good ol' "bend over and take it" approach to service. "Have some money? Keep it here! We'll look after it for you for a small fee." Sounds pretty good, eh? Except for the "small fee" part, which as we all know, actually means "every time you breathe, it will cost you money".

What really frosts my cake are the user fees that the bank imposes when you actually have no money! A minimum balance, for example. Don't have two grand? That'll cost you $6.50/mo. Not enough money to cover a cheque you wrote? That'll cost you whatever the cheque was worth PLUS 75 big ones. Apparently financial institutions can get blood from a stone.

Boo hoo. The bank only had a profit of $100 bajillion. Gee, it's going to be a lean Christmas for Tiny Tim this year. The more I think about it, the more I believe that our grandparents had the right idea by hiding their cash in the mattress and under the floor boards. Hey...It earns just as much interest, but without the fees! I wonder if there is a bank for banks?

Okay, I better stop now before I give myself horrible ulcers. And then have to go on disability, which is paid through insurance, who will then increase my premiums, which I'll have to pay for out my savings, which I hardly have any, which means the bank will charge me higher fees...

Holy Hannah, somebody stop the madness!!

Life Lesson # 5: Be Warned, Lest Ye Be Humbled

I am not really a spa kind of guy. Don't get me wrong, though; I love a good massage or a foot rub, but I'd rather stay away from the girly-type treatments like pedicures and facials. However, I figured I was comfortable enough with myself that I thought I could handle taking my wife to a spa resort in Grenada for a week. As part of the vacation package, we were both entitled to a daily treatment of our choice.

Of course, my wife thought she'd died and gone to heaven. But as with most of my life's disasters, I approached the situation with "how bad can this be?" (That should be a life-lesson in and of itself).

The week was going well:
Scalp massage. Fantastic.
Swedish massage. Awesome.
Foot treatment. Incredible.

Seaweed Wrap. Great googly moogly, what the hell was I thinking?

Now some of you may have experienced this before and will know where I'm going with this one. For those of you with no prior wrap experience: PAY ATTENTION. The following horror story is for your own good.

My first clue that I was in trouble came as I entered the treatment room and the woman handed me a tampon. I screamed like Homer Simpson and threw it against the wall. How bad is this session going to be that I'm going to need a tampon?? And just where the hell do you expect me to put it?? (THIS is why guys don't go to spas). She explained to me that that was my disposable underwear and then stepped out of the room to allow me to change.

Disposable underwear? This was definitely not in the brochure. Note to self: Kill travel agent when I get home.

Unrolling the little cotton tube reveals what appears to be two Kleenex -- one for the front, one for the back -- attached by a couple pieces of string. I thought: You gotta be kidding me. I'm supposed to WEAR this?? It was like herding cats, trying to get everything in place before the woman returned!

After laying back on the table and feeling quite vulnerable, the woman proceeds to paint me with what amounts to seaweed puree. Who would have thought that something that smells like a wharf could be good for the skin? Oh, and did I mention that this concoction was also applied at the soothing temperature of approximately 6 degrees? I'll forego the shrinkage jokes.

The "wrap" part of the program involves being cocooned in a plastic bag, followed by a heated blanket. "The heat from the blanket", says the woman, "activates the skin cleansing properties of the seaweed mixture". I think what she meant to say was "...causes your body to emit an odour similar to rotten compost". Great, so now I look AND smell like a cabbage roll.

20 minutes later, she returns and informs me that I am to get into the shower and rinse off. I make a move to step out of my disposable undies only to have the woman say "Oh no, not yet. We're not finished." Say WHAT?

Now what do you suppose happens when you get a Kleenex wet? Right. It clings like saran wrap. And turned just as transparent. I'm sure the one on my front actually shrunk a size or two and because it had, there was no way I was getting that party under control again. The one behind was nowhere to be found, despite my valiant attempts to retrieve it (and my dignity) from the abyss.

Resigning myself to the fact that modesty has left the building, I dry off and return to the treatment room, head down, not wanting to make eye contact and having no clue as to what horror could possibly come next.

The final stage of the treatment involves this woman rubbing lotion all over my body. And I mean ALL OVER. She got into places my wife hasn't seen. And the whole time I just kept thinking: "Please don't go up; Please don't go up; Please don't go up."

At last, I was released back out into the wilds of the resort, blinking at the bright sunlight and feeling more than a little violated. I spent the remainder of the afternoon, clutching my knees, rocking back and forth, muttering "No. No. Momma said you're not supposed to touch me there."

It was one of the most humbling experiences of my life, but if I can save at least one of you from going through the same thing, then I've done my job. Next time we're going to Disneyland.

But, boy, did I have some fabulously smooth and glowing skin!

Ain't No Flies On Us. I Wish.

I spent much of today pondering one of life's greatest mysteries. No, it's not "How can anyone find Courtney Love attractive?" The quandry I'm stuck on has plagued humankind since about 1913, and that question is "Should you tell a person that their fly is down?"

Being caught with your fly down can be very awkward, depending on the situation. It's not so bad if your significant other mentions it while you both watch TV, but it's quite another sensation to be told, after the fact, that your shirt tail was poking out of your barn door during your entire presentation to the Board of Directors.

The answer to this question is not as clear-cut as it may seem. There are subtleties and nuances that must be observed and understood before deciding to take action or not. Let me tell you something…Today I sat through almost an entire hour whereby my manager regaled a group of us with story after story, completely oblivious to the fact that he had some fruit poking out of the loom. I'm not usually one to pass up a good burn on my manager in front of others, but since he hasn't done my performance appraisal yet, I thought it would be in my best interest to just to keep quiet.

For me, I would want someone to tell me that my junk is hanging out before I parade around any longer than I already have. And because of this, I will usually be the one to speak up if I spy a low-hanging fly. There's something just a little too creepy about having one less layer of cloth between me and a foreign wang. It's just too unsettling for me not to say anything.

Obviously, being told that the world can see your gitch can leave you quite red-faced. (God help you if you've decided to go commando that day...) It means that at least one person knows that you just came from the washroom and that they can see your leopard-print bikini briefs. There is no graceful way of doing up a wayward zipper without attracting the attention of everyone in the room, but at least you can do it and get it overwith.

On the other hand, if you are the person observing this fashion infraction and bring it to the offender's attention, you rat yourself out as having been looking at their crotch in the first place. Definitely something to keep in mind.

And this raises another important question: What about the sexes of the parties involved? Is it any better or worse if a man mentions it to a woman? Or vice versa? Or from one guy to another? With such a litigious society these days, I wouldn't be surprised if the courts have seen a case or two of alleged sexual harassment because some poor guy tried to save his female coworker some embarassment. (Note to all men: it may be best to tell her that her fly is down instead of trying to zip it up yourself…)

And do you tell the person immediately or wait until a quieter, more private moment? And what's the best way to handle a half-zipped zipper?

So many questions. No straightforward answers.

I say we rally for the installation of Velcro flies (much safer for the men!). Either that, or we all start wearing those stretchy waist-band pants with no fly at all.

MacDonald's Pays Too Much

Years ago, a kid was the envy of the neighbourhood if his soap-box racer had burlap on the seat. "Hey, nifty threads, Pete! That sure looks swell!" Today, however, somebody needs to explain to me the rationale behind buying a $17,000 base model Honda Civic, and then sinking an additional $26,000 in accessories into it.

A stereo system that can make a Nine Inch Nails concert sound like Zamfir in an elevator. Neon lights in the under-carriage, making the car look like a dance club on wheels. A spoiler (aka: whale tail) that has apparently been stolen off the ass end of a 747. And whatever the hell that cylinder is attached to the tailpipe, making the car sound more like a flatulent man in the Grand Canyon.

And don't forget the tinted windows, low profile tires, custom seats, coloured head and tail lights and fancy paint-job. Oh, and the ever-present something-er-other hanging from the rear-view mirror. More bling than Mr. T.

I ask you: Why? Why do you think this makes you look cool? Why would you take a perfectly good car and turn it into a vehicular Frankenstein? And more to the point: why do you apparently make more money than I do and can therefore afford such obscene luxuries?

Let me tell you something…these kids sure have some messed up priorities if they've got $43,000 to blow and they choose to spend it all on their stupid car. If you want a fancy, fast car you can get a decent BMW, Mercedes or even a year-old Lexus for that kind of money! And those all have more room in the backseat for…uh…you know…taking friends to library.

And what's the deal with street racing? After spending so much time and money "pimping your ride" (see, I'm down with the youth lingo, yo!), I simply cannot understand the logic behind wanting to risk destroying your car, your life and/or someone else's life by drag racing on city streets. Is it simply for the honour of saying "My unit is bigger than your unit"? A $2 ruler could settle those scores.

Some people blame video games like Grand Theft Auto or Super Mario Kart for planting the seeds in the kids heads that if you wreck, you can hit the reset button and try again. Some people blame the parents for not keeping control of their kids, allowing them to buy these vehicles and do all kinds of surgeries and mutations to them.

I think the real problem is that minimum wage is set too high. How else can a grease-ball teenager afford such a thing? I didn't own my first car until I was 22. It was a 6 year-old Pontiac Sunbird, and even then I barely had enough money to put gas in the damn thing, let alone pay for the "Calvin pissing" sticker .

Whatever happened to scrounging up and pooling all the loose change you could find so that you and your friends could buy a case of beer and then get wasted out behind the barn? 40-grand buys a lot of beer. And you don't even have to buy insurance.

Guesses?

Anyone notice anything different about me today?

And no, I did not just have my hair done.

Life Lesson #4: Think through the plan before taking action.

When I was about 6 or 7 years old (who knows…I wasn't paying much attention back then), I decided I desperately needed an influx of cash. For what? I haven't a clue. All I knew was that I needed it. And bad.

So what does a little kid do to get some green, right away, and by putting in as little effort as possible? Canvass the neighbourhood for donations to a charity, of course.

No papers, no identification. Not even an envelope to keep the money in. And yet, a pile of houses ponied up some dough after looking into my big doe eyes and hearing my well-rehearsed and undoubtedly convincing sales pitch: "Hi. I'm collecting for the Cancer Society. Can I have some money?"

In the end, I wound up with what probably amounted to $10 or $15, but to my monetarily virginal mind it seemed closer to a grand. One house even was even kind (naive?) enough to provide me with an envelope to carry my windfall…er, I mean…charitable donations.

On the ride home, I even devised a cover story in the event that my parents would question me about where the money came from. "I found it at the highschool. In this envelope. Just sitting under a tree." Oh yeah, I was good to go.

I nearly got away with it all if it hadn't been for one single, yet Rita MacNeil-sized, flaw in my plan.

Shortly after returning home -- I hadn't even found a place to stash my cash yet -- the telephone rang. Seems one of my canvassed houses had somehow inadvertently forgotten to pick up her tax receipt for the donation she gave.

Buh-sted.

But that, in and of itself, is not my fatal blunder. As any well-trained child should know, you don't talk to strangers. I had kept that in the back of my mind -- and collected money only from houses where I knew the owners! Friends of the family and parents of kids I went to school with.

So my near-perfect heist went to crap faster than a Steven Seagal movie.

As you can probably imagine, my parents hit the roof. I had to go back to all the houses to return the money and explain what I had done. In addition, I had to do enough chores around the house to earn the equivalent amount of money which would then truly go to the Cancer Society.

So obviously, the lesson for today is that if you're going to steal from your neighbours, don't go home afterwards.