Curmudgeons and Cormorants

My daughter, built in the all-knowing, all-seeing image of her mother, rushed upstairs from the dungeon that we have permitted her to install in what once was an in-law suite and yelled, “Hey Dad, I just read a book about you.”

I was, to say the least, mildly interested. I even halted my pondering on the meaning of life. To my knowledge no one has ever written a book about me. In fact, barring a notice in the local paper stating that an unidentified cyclist (me) was run over by a man wearing blue jeans and sporting a Zapata moustache, and, who at the time of the incident was eating an Egg McMuffin while driving a pale green 67 Mustang, I have had nothing written about me. My mother writes to me, my wife talks about me, my son talks around me and my cats ignore me, but no one writes about me.

I had to know more, “Sounds like a good book, what’s it called, ‘The Unidentified Cyclist’?”

“No it’s about guys who are grouches and grumps. I read it at my friend Sheila’s house. They’re called Cormorants or something. You should read it.”

A book about me, grouches, grumps and Cormorants. My interest was growing, “Sounds exciting, what’s the title, ‘A Nice Guy and the Seven Grumps go Bird watching’?”

“No Dad, it’s not about birds. It’s people who are famous for being grouchy.”

I was learning a lot. First, a book about me. Then to discover I was a famous grouch, “So, dearest daughter, what makes you think I’m a famous grouch?”

“Oh Dad, you’re not.”

“Terrific, so I’m not a grouch.”

“No, you’re not famous. Not yet. So far you’re just a local neighbourhood grouch. I guess you’re what they call a Little League grouch. Since you don’t get paid for it, maybe you’re just an amateur grouch.”

“Thanks a lot. Get out of here.”

“See, you are a grouch. I tell you you’re famous and you get grouchy.”

“I’m only an amateur remember. I need the practice.”

“Yeah, well not on me. I’m history, see you later, Grumpy.”

It needed pondering. Anyone would be grumpy and grouchy if, having shuffled past forty-five they realize they have already sweated out what would be the equivalent of two lifetimes for an average Ancient Phoenician. Who by the sound of it did not really qualify for the term ancient since they rarely lived past their twenty second birthday. An all I have to show for it is a daughter who thinks I’m a cormorant or a grouch and a six foot four son who spends his entire waking moments with his head in the fridge or else kicking a hacky-sack around the living room.

Before I could start to ponder it all, my wife walked in. “Camille told me you are in a book. My first guess was a coffee-table book of wanted posters.”

“Cute. And yes, she told me. But where did the cormorants come from?”

“Cormorants? She told me it was about conundrums. I told her the proper word was ‘curmudgeons’. She said, ‘Whatever.’ and walked out.”

“You hear the word conundrum and immediately associate it and me with the word curmudgeon?”

“Oh course, the two are synonymous. You wear your grouchiness like a mantle of purple. You’re born to it. Like that other guy?”

“What other guy? John Wayne?”

“No, the crabby guy on hockey games. The one with no neck and a dog.”

“Don Cherry and me? I’m a fan of Ron Mclean not Don Cherry,” I left the room in disgust.

I found shelter in my study and got back to pondering. I sat and pondered. My wife calls it pouting. I insist there is a difference. Kids and Siamese cats with vindictive hearts pout. Men possessing a talent for invective and who have a voracious appetite for science fiction ponder.  Stylites of Macedonia perched up on a stone pillar and pondered for over twenty years. After that he came down, got married and promptly died.

Anyway, I pondered. I pondered about being a curmudgeon. Me. Never. But. I looked it up. Curmudgeon - a grouch with redeeming qualities, especially one with an admirable talent for invective, often possessing a penchant for pondering.

I looked up Cormorant; a large lustrous-black voracious sea-bird with a talent for invective squawking. It is frequently sighted drifting on long mild swells on the Pacific Ocean, pondering.

I was a dead duck. I had just admitted to myself that I pondered. I was either a curmudgeon or a cormorant. Both appeared fond of invective, but my only bouts of voraciousness occur during the all you can eat buffet brunch when my father-in-law is buying. Over all, I preferred invective to voracious but it is quite a conundrum isn’t it?

Ground Hoggy Day

Every February the second my wife sees her shadow and I know that I am in for a very rough six weeks. It really begins at Christmas. During the Winter Solstice and all that jollifying and merrymaking, we go whole hog. Apparently, it is tied to some primeval, store-up-for-a-long-winter, get to the trough and pig out kind of feeding frenzy. Our ancestors used to step out of their caves, sniff the air, freeze off a few nostrils and then run around and butcher a few hundred bison, cave bears and other such fauna. A big hunt would get them through the winter. Now it’s a mad dash to Costco, snatch up the biggest bird we can find, usually one that took his last bath in a bowl of melted butter. Stuffing the bird and then ourselves we would slam on ten or fifteen pounds during the twelve days of Christmas. All the other goodies help out, the gravy, the pumpkin pie, chips and dip, the kid’s chocolate Santas and especially those yummy little pork and lard sausage rolls. Enough! Enough, I cannot stand it. This is about the horrible present, not the beautiful past.

Feb Two arrives. All over Canada and the USA little groundhogs are to-ing and fro-ing, sunscreen in their little furry paws, as they scurry off to decide the meteorological fate of the North American continent. But in my house it is the unforgiving squeak of the bathroom scales that scares the shadow out of me.

Being aware of the possibilities for the day I head out for work quite early. Early enough to cram home a couple of Egg McMuffins, a side order of Big Breakfast, a couple of hotcakes and a gallon of coffee. Lunch is one of those ten minutes or it’s free pizzas, actually it was two of them, plus a couple of cold slices left over on the next table. I figure I’m stoked up and ready for the night’s festivities, but just in case I makes a couple of stops on the road home. One at KFC for the celebrated popcorn chicken and a snack pack, the other to polish off a Peanut Buster Parfait at DQ.

I arrive home, a little nauseous, but content in the knowledge that I have had a little something from the four important food groups; pork, chicken, pizza and beer. The beer? I had that after the Peanut Buster Parfait. There is a pub across the street and it seemed like a good idea at the time. I enter the house carefully. Sniff the air. Not bad. I detect onions and garlic, maybe a hint of oregano with just a diminutive tang of ground cloves, highlighted by the delicate flavour of Spanish paprika along with a soupcon of saffron.

But I’m not the only one with a perfect sense of smell. “What’s that I smell? Do I detect the overpowering aroma of pepperoni? Is that a hint of greasy burnt chicken, overlaid with the rotting flavour of malt, hops and yeast?”

I let it slide by. But then, then dread pronouncement, “This house is under dietary martial law. Don’t roll your eyes at me. You know that junk food will kill you. I for one am not going to spend my golden years pushing you around in a wheelchair. Drink this.”

I’m handed a mug of some sewage-like substance. “From the local sewage site?” I ask.

“That’s carrot, beet and cabbage juice. It will de-toxify you.”

For de-tox read galloping diarrhea, a morning mouth that will singe the hairs off the back of a mountain gorilla and a migraine the envy of every goalie ever hit in the head by a Bobby Hull slapshot.

“Mmm, mmm, that’s good.”

“Don’t put that down, you’ve only had a sip. Finish it off then go sit down. Supper’s ready.”

“What is it?”

“Wait and see. I found the recipe in “Fit for Life - Two.”

Oh God, a sequel. Not only was the first book an epicurean disaster, it cost us millions in toilet paper, Listerine and aspirin.

“Hey, this is great. This is alright. Tastes like liver.”

“Get out of the fridge. Your supper is on the table. You’ve just eaten half of the cat’s dinner.”

Now there’s an interesting point. How come that sumo wrestler disguised as a Siamese cat is missing out on all his health food stuff? For his weight and height he could be a fur coated anvil. He moves just as fast. How come he’s not drinking catnip tea and veggie-flavoured Miss Meow?

“Well, get on with it. And remember, keep an open mind. This will give you more energy, you’ll feel better and sleep better.”

This from a woman who spends her weekends wanting to know why I spend my weekends sleeping in front of TSN. But she is right in one respect. It did give me more energy. After one tortured week of living on the ‘Three G’ diet – gruel, greens and ghastly, I can jump up at three in the morning, dash out on tiptoes, a ghostly, rather portly ballerina, steal out to my secret stash where I wolf down three bowls of Captain Crunch, two Mars bars, all washed down with a litre of warm chocolate milk. I even have enough energy to deliver a huge belch toward the sleeping cat as I stagger back to bed a happy man.

Buying Jeans

Every year it seems my waist size is trying to catch up with my age. If this keeps up, by the time I hit retirement the only casual wear I’ll be able to get into will be a circus tent.

I have been on a blue jean hunt now for over two weeks. The men’s department in the trendy stores do not stock anything larger than a 38 waist. In fact, one salesman had the nerve to suggest, when I asked for a size 40, “We don’t carry anything that large.”

Like I’m shopping for The Jolly Green Giant. I mean, how much difference is there in a size 38 and a 40? Quite a lot if you listen to the sales crew who work in those boutique joints.

And the names, “Ron’s Ren Dey Vooz”, “The Look”, “Clint’s Cummerbunds and Blue Jeans” and “Where Style is King”. Sadly and desperately, I do need a new pair. The old one’s are comfy, broken in and look good but I had to use duct tape to seal the holes in the pocket lining. So I gave it the Grand Tour. First stop is Ron’s, only because it’s on the way to Clint’s. After those two, a short pause at “The Look” (just to look) where the stuff looks remarkably like Ron’s stuff and Clint’s except its marked up a little higher because its been dragged on the floor of a cotton baling ware- house by Peruvian grape-crushers.

The last place is offering up some hogwash about how the Miners of ‘49 rushed off to the goldfields clad stylishly in their pants. I’ll bet they didn’t rush too far in items such as the latest Spring fashion of mauve slacks hand stitched in rice paper masquerading as imitation denim.

“It’s all the rage now sir,” said the clerk.

It’s all the rage because anyone with an IQ higher than their waist size – like me - can’t get into them. Self-castration by too-tight jeans  generates plenty of rage.

“One wearing is all it takes for you to fall in love with these jeans, sir.

“One wearing is all I’ll manage, and then the rear end will have created for itself the see-through look. Besides, I’m here for a pair of jeans not a relationship.

I finally found a pair that fit that were less than a size 40. They were a special brand with unique features; Buffalo Bill’s Relaxed Fit, Easy Access, Molasses-bleached, canoe-dragged, one hundred percent artificial denim.  They were manufactured in a small European country by members of an obscure cult of anchovy worshippers. They fit just perfectly.

And, as the saleslady casually pointed out as I disembarked from the fitting room, “Those buttons on the fly do up sir.”

“Button front fly?”

“Yes, it’s a new look.”

A look like that can get me thrown in jail. Reluctantly I returned them to the clearance table, after all, they only had a tiny tear in the seat. No way was I going back into time to B.Z., Before Zippers.

I continued my search. I arrived at one store that advertised - All we sell is jeans! They were closed. But it looked like they had had a hell of a going out of business sale. Last resort was a joint purported to be the working man’s place for clothes. The weekly special there was the 52 waist and the 52 inch leg.

“We got a real deal on one hundred pairs. Terrific deal for the working man.”

“How many pairs are left?” I asked.

“Ninety-eight.”

It looked like both of the working men in the city didn’t need another 49 pairs of jeans each. Neither did I, unless I wanted to outfit my refrigerator in denim.

I never did find a true-blue pair of jeans I liked. I settled for a mock denim version of semi-casual jean wannabes.  It was much like Goldilocks and the three Bears. I too three pairs into the change room. The first pair I tried on as sop to my self-esteem and my never say die optimism. With pair number two I had enough room to harbour a fugitive in beside me. Pair number three were just right. Thinking of the upcoming football season of beer, of chips, dip and other snack that I would require to keep up my strength as an armchair quarterback, I did ask the sales clerk to keep pair number two under the counter for me as a kind of backup.

I held out pair number three, “I’ll take these, please.”

“Oh, the semi-large, not-quite-huge size. I guess the optimistic size didn’t fit?”

“No, I’m stuck with virtual reality. I’m virtually convinced that the optimistic size and have parted company forever.”

“Yes, I can see that,” she said as she held them up. “I thought I heard a fight of some kind going on in that change room.”

That would have been pair number one. I bought one pair and paid for two. 

Nightmare on Elm St (Canadian edition)

Do you remember your dreams? Not just a ghost of an image, a whisper of a memory scattered throughout the night’s sleep, but all of them every excruciating detail. My wife does. Her dreams are more explicit than a 3D movie, and include full colour, play-by-play narration, stunts and sound effects. And that’s just her telling them to me. She makes them sound so dramatic. They’re usually absurd mundane adventures of herself, her mother or her sisters solving day-to-day problems such as too-tight pantyhose or getting the ring around the collar off a tee-shirt while stuck on the roof of a ten storey building that is cascading merrily down a flooded river valley.

I was flailing away in my sleep the other night and woke her up. I merely carried on snoring. The next morning I was confronted by a very concerned woman who wanted to know just how tortured I was. Was work bothering me, was I upset over something, or was I just stressed out because I had not been invited to drum naked in Beacon Hill Park? None of the above. As far as I was concerned everything was fine.“But your dreams mean something.”

Yes they mean I was asleep. I never remember my dreams. I have them and I forget them. Makes the day easier.

“Well you’d remember them if you wrote them down.”

So I did. Somewhere in the middle of the dark period between midnight and dawn I woke up grabbed the pen and paper and began scribbling. It woke my wife. I went back to sleep, she was left staring at the ceiling for hours.

At supper that evening she told me it must have been an interesting dream. I went and found the clipboard and all I saw was three pages of scribbling that vaguely stirred some memories of a plane, a bunk bed, some loose change, a dog and a water fountain. Not in that order or all together, I hope.

She asked me if it made sense. I said oh yes, it foretold my entire day.

“There, I told you. Dreams do mean something. What happened?”

“Well, in the news today a plane was hijacked from Japan and landed in Saskatoon. I had no change for the parking meter, the neighbour’s dog deposited a present on the front lawn and I took a drink from the water fountain at work.”

“What about the bunk bed?”

“Oh, that’s the best part. We’re going out to buy one. That way we’ll both get some sleep.”