Man Eating Fish, Bakery Theft and KKK Heaven: Let’s Introduce the Contestants

Tex is applying for new jobs. Which means we are potentially moving. I’ve listed the possibilities in order of how much I like them.

  1. Where we currently live

There is a job opening here that Tex is applying for. Because who wouldn’t want to remain in a community where people question what types of knives are necessary to cut up a moose in the Canadian Tire? Also, where else is it normal for one of your band mates call in sick because they have eight stitches in their hand from a jackfish bite? I love our tiny, northern home.

  1. A smaller version of where we live

This spot would totally be number one on the list if not for the move because in addition to the risk of losing digits to unruly jackfish while fishing here, there is the opportunity to both downhill and cross country ski nearby. If that isn’t nine fingered heaven, I don’t know what is. However, getting a job here would involve moving, which involves lifting, a task that is against my religion, or that I hate so much that it ought to be in the good book somewhere.

  1. Charm City

Not the cake place.

ace-of-cakes

Everyone would want to come to my house. (Photo Credit: CBS Baaltimore)

Although living in a bakery would totally also be nine fingered heaven where I’d help myself to a ten fingered discount everyday on my way out the door after sleeping next to the piping bags. But number three was succinctly and accurately described by Tex as “charming”, before we visited it. He was right on the money, from the cute shops on the main street, to the quirky ice cream place, to its storied history, this place oozes charm. A top pick for sure.

  1. The place with an indoor playground

I didn’t actually hear all of the other strengths of this city after Tex mentioned that it has an indoor playground. Y’all, I live in a place where it’s so cold that the mercury routinely curls up in a frozen ball at the bottom of the thermometer because it’s too frigid out for this element to do its job and rise up the glass to show what temperature it is. The idea of moving somewhere with mini trampolines and slides where there isn’t the threat of losing multiple digits to frostbite (because the cold is meaner than jackfish) warms the cockles of this mother’s icy Canadian heart. Irrespective of the beautiful nature around our current home, there is no indoor playground to speak of, so I am STOKED at the idea of taking a rowdy toddler somewhere that he can launch himself off of structures which aren’t our fireplace or antique tables.

  1. The town with the German name

One word. Oktoberfest. Yes, I recognize that I’m breastfeeding, and old, and therefore can’t get raucously drunk like some sort of undergrad, but once a year, I could pretend that I was going to, then back out at the last minute citing ringworm or some other equally disgusting childhood ailment that makes people run in the opposite direction.

  1. The place that I always get the name wrong

I can’t tell you much about this place. It is, however, close to my Aunty Betty, so it gets points for that. But not much else, it probably has a store, also a gas station, possibly indoor plumbing.

  1. Where we are likely to end up

Tex likes this place. I don’t. We visited because Tex knew his job was ending and was all “What do you think of this spot?” and I was a good wife and didn’t say “The restaurant can’t even make decent fries and the mall smells funny” but I’m telling my thoughts to you dear readers, so that you can pray for me. Because there is nothing here. Remember how that last place might have had indoor plumbing? I’m 98% certain this place doesn’t. I didn’t use the bathrooms at the mall, but they likely had some sort of medieval set up with a outhouse trough near the horses so all of creation could do their business together. Admittedly I didn’t see any horses and have no evidence of this trough set up that I’ve described but it’s one of those things that a person knows in their soul.

  1. The place that I always forget about

I can tell you even less about this place than about number six. It’s possible that I myself will stop existing if my family moves there because it’s so forgettable.

  1. The KKK believe that if they are very good, after death, their members end up here

Once upon a time, a yuppy turned to another yuppy, and said “Hey I like hanging out with you, shall we go to place where we can hang out alone?” So they drove, a really long time, but they could still hear the other poor and multicultural people, hence the Caucasian yuppies continued to drive for another hour and a half. And thus this community was born. It’s far, far away from anything resembling civilization. It looks like it’s been dropped in the middle of the prairie like some sort of city planner’s version of a joke. The inhabitants consist entirely of labradoodle walking, seven-dollar-boxes-of-organic-seed-based-cracker-eating, white people who drive their kids to hockey practice even though it’s thirty seconds away by car. Based on the layout of the place, I think the city planners thought peyote was a food group. Housing prices here are ABSURD, given that it’s four hours away from anything and has limited amenities. It’s like the old rich white people, turned to the other rich white people and asked “How can we only let in yuppies to our club in the middle of nowhere?” and then decided to make homes laughably expensive and all the roads highways because there’s nothing that white people like better, myself included, than driving to the store which is two minutes away in their oversized vehicles, feeling pious for remembering their reusable bags.

What do you think readers? What would be YOUR pick for a place for me to live? Leave your choice in the comment section below.  Come back tomorrow evening and I’ll let you know where we end up. And again, pray for me, otherwise I’m going to end up using the loo next to Black Beauty.

 

We Have Come to the Painful, Unmoving, Beaverless End

My Beloved Unwashed Public,

I’m writing to you from my probable death bed. This past weekend, I made the decision to try cross country skiing despite the fact that it was rumored to be the only activity more vigorous than running.

The day started off reasonably well; I questioned the girl renting Natalie* and myself the skis about her experiences.

The Great Unwashed “Has anyone ever laid down in front of your desk and perished from exhaustion after cross country skiing?”

Underpaid Youth Renting Me Equipment “Umm no?”

Strapping on our skis Natalie and I began the trail. We were quickly passed by a gentleman four decades our senior. We had only just begun the trail and already a part of me (my ego) was sore.

Then a little later on I saw this.DSC01372

“Look!” I cried “A beaver!

I paused and added more quietly “Was here.”

This led to a full minute of Natalie turning this way and that shouting “Where?! Where’s the beaver? I don’t see it.”

After that Natalie suggested that we rest for a moment. Although I no longer run marathons there’s a part of me which thinks “I can still move so I should”. When we stopped, I realized how sore my muscles were becoming and how badly I had needed the break. So I was really happy we had listened to Natalie rather than my marathon running voice. Multiple times along the trail Natalie suggested we stop for a breather. These breaks are likely the reason why I’m still with you and able to pen my last words at this moment.

After resting for a handful of minutes that first time, we soldiered on. It was around then when I noticed that even my knees were sweating. Uphill, then uphill again, perplexingly we continued uphill with no downhill in sight for many miles. Possibly eighteen. Two of my layers were soaked through with perspiration and a wet patch was becoming visible on the back of my jacket. Then we went downhill but only briefly.

At last, the end of the trail and the chalet came into view. Though Natalie and I were both exhausted beyond comprehension, we raced towards it. At the end of the trail, without speaking to one another, both of us removed our equipment and lay down face up in the snow. I felt my pulse in my face while my heart thudded almost violently in my chest, as I waited for the oft spoken of bright light to flood my vision. Once I realized I wasn’t imminently going to expire, I sat up, keenly aware of the squishing sounds that my wet clothing was making and my desire for water.

Then the horrible endurance athlete part of me spoke “Shall we do the trail again?” I asked Natalie. “I don’t want to at this moment” she replied. “Never under estimate the restorative powers of lunch” the marathon running, work horse voice in me added. Having decided that she too was not going to move towards the white light, Natalie sat up “Let’s go have lunch”.

The light reflecting off the snow filled our vision to begin with. Really it would have been only a short hop to blinding white light.

The light reflecting off the snow filled our vision to begin with. Really it would have been only a short hop to blinding white light.

For whatever reason, the evil marathon running voice that which had repeated “You aren’t dead yet – Keep moving!” all morning prevailed and Natalie and I skied the trail once more after lunch.

We spent the car ride home taking turns shaking each other out of unconsciousness. That evening I managed to stay up to the late hour of six o’clock, at which point I collapsed face down on the dining room carpet while en route to brush my teeth. Upon opening my eyes the next morning I thought “I don’t know if I can walk to the library” after sitting up I thought “I don’t know if I’m going to the library.”

Gradually over the course of the day my muscles have tightened and it’s becoming clear that this is the end. As you all are my faithful followers, I thought it best to leave you a note. My dear Unwashed public, let my demise be a lesson to you; when faced with the societal pressure to combat obesity and try a new activity, stay right where you are. Don’t move a muscle or you may end up like me, slowly stiffening into nothingness.

I leave you all my love but only half my dirt and grime (I’m taking the rest with me)

Sincerely,

The Great Unwashed

*Names have been changed even though the unnamed are likely near the end as well.

Walter, Get the Hell Out

I’m not eating my way through winter this year but that does not mean I love it. Around the middle of January, just after the massive snowfall but before the consistently freezing temperatures that forced the province inside indefinitely, I walked outside to my car before work. It was chilly, but not cold enough to snow, just cold enough to coat my truck in a sheet of half ice, half water that needed to be scraped off.

It was in that bleak, grey moment that I renamed the month. The name January conjures up images of pretty, youthful ladies and fairy tale landscapes. While January is actually a cantankerous grouch, hell bent on everyone’s misery, working tirelessly to suck the enjoyment out of life. From the dim cloudy mornings to the early dark nights and every sleet filled and ice cold moment in between, January is disagreeable.

This woman bears zero resemblance to a Canadian winter. (Photo Credit : fansshare.com)

This woman bears zero resemblance to a Canadian winter. (Photo Credit : fansshare.com)

Far from being a charming, young woman, January or Walter as I have now named it, is a crabby, old man. I chose the name Walter because I couldn’t imagine anyone under the age of twenty being called that.

January is the elderly man who shakes their cane angrily at any youths passing by, whose favourite hobby is telling people how incompetent they are, the one who pees on the floor beside the toilet and dares you to call them on it. That’s Walter and that sums up the experience of January. It’s a month that you wish would leave.

“Walter I hate you!” I shouted waving my snowbrush at the sky. My neighbours would have thought I was a crazy person had they been up but lucky for me frat boys sleep in until at least eleven am.

“Go home!” I bellowed “You’re not welcome here anymore!”

But Walter, like any unwelcome guest hunkered down, feeding on my generosity.

 

Death By Frozen Tundra

We’ve had cold weather warnings all week here in Canadatown. However this has not stopped me from walking to my beloved haunts like the library and campus. It has meant that I look like a larger, fabric laden version of myself; suiting up in no less than five layers up top and a minimum of two on the bottom.

Do they still count as kankles if I made them by tucking my pants into my socks?

Do they still count as kankles if I made them by tucking my pants into my socks?

Having walked in negative twenty degree temperatures for an hour several times recently, I concluded that today was the perfect day to drag someone who once called himself my friend (possibly no longer) into the wretched, frozen wilderness with me. So off we headed to the local park.

I insisted that we go to the beach. Because it’s January, and who doesn’t love the beach in January?

What we found was this.

I'm standing where the water line was in the summer. In the distance are the ice hills. I enjoy my rotundness.

I’m standing where the water line was in the summer. In the distance are the ice hills. I enjoy my rotundness.

In the summer months the water line began about fifteen feet from the dunes. As a result of this unusually cold winter, the waves have been freezing as they crash against the shore, forming a moonscape made of porous ice mixed with sand. It was stunning. It was rugged. It was so slippery I was reduced to bumbogganing at points. This sounds uncomfortable but I had a far easier time of it than Gordy what with my ample bottom being cushioned by three pairs of pants.photo 2

Initially I was hesitant to climb over the craggy surface, fearing that at any moment the ice would crack and the two of us would plunge into the lake. Luckily Gordy was all “To heck with safety!” and made a beeline for the sandy ice hills.

I followed after him, making sure to listen for sounds of the ice breaking and stepping exactly in his footsteps.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of vulnerable possibly mentally incapacitated persons. Because those in possession of all of their faculties would not have spent the day wandering about in foot high drifts and exploring ice mountains. Either that or I have a nice friend who didn’t want me doing this alone.

Travesty Tuesday – Tricycle Rides and Unfortunate Sleeping Arrangements

The Great Unwashed- “I’m putting up a Travesty Tuesday post.”

Roscoe- “But it’s Friday.”

The Great Unwashed- “You know that saying “It’s five o’clock somewhere?” Well it’s Tuesday somewhere. It’s a time zone thing.”

Roscoe- “That’s not how time zones work.”

Red onion slices

These account for approximately 60% of the New Zealand diet.** (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Great Unwashed – “It’s Tuesday in New Zealand. Honest. And it doesn’t even matter if it isn’t, New Zealanders do things backwards anyways, they call every second Wednesday “Girdle” and only eat raw onions.”

Roscoe walked out of the room after that. He does that sometimes.

Here is an email I sent to my youngest cousin Candy*. She came to visit me just before leaving to go to college. It’s my guess that she robbed multiple convenience stores and the judge gave her the option of going to Juvie for a month or spending time with me. I think Juvie was looking pretty sweet after she read this.

Oh well you can’t win ‘em all, right Candy?

 

 

Dear Candy,

 

SURPRISE! We’re going camping. Nothing big, just the local park and only for one night. To celebrate this momentous occasion my truck is in at the mechanics getting both the flap thingie on the front fixed and also the SCREEEEEEEE noise that it’s been making any time I turn it on.

The parking lot in front of the garage was packed full of broken-down cars. The mechanics seemed doubtful about when they would be able to return my truck to me.

English: A man is repairing a tri-cycle who se...

Candy, I think you over packed a little. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As such it’s my recommendation to you Candy, to practice core muscle exercises for the next few days. Not only will these assist with paddle boarding which we shall be trying at the park but it will also help in your transport to the house from the bus station. My current plan is to ride a tricycle over and have you ride on my shoulders the three kilometers home. You will have to carry your suitcase on your back obviously.

This is a hugely popular transportation method in India just so you know.

We will be sharing the giant self inflating mattress while camping because I can’t be bothered to bring and blow up two separate ones when I could punch and kick my way through a night next to someone who is obligated to be nice to me by virtue of sharing just over 12% of my genetic code and staying in my house.

I also suggest you bring a sweater, a bathing suit, sunscreen and a UV shirt*** if you own one. Otherwise I’ll make you wear one of my UV shirts which are so used and stretched out that they’d look more appropriate on a fashionable orangutan.

Or maybe not, I feel like a fashionable anything would refuse to wear a UV shirt.

I have all necessary other camping items although I suggest you remind me to bring pillows. I often forget this item and no matter how I arrange the pile, firewood never seems comfortable to sleep on.

Lovingly, awkwardly and always on three wheels, your cousin,

The Great Unwashed

 

*Candy is as sweet as her made up name. She would never burn down convenience stores. She is frequently forced to visit me, a severe penance for crimes she doesn’t commit. At least I don’t think she commits crimes. I was covered in highly flammable oil during her visit though.

 

** I wouldn’t necessarily trust my knowledge of the world. I garnered most of the facts I know about New Zealand from Wild Buttercup. However I only looked at the pictures so I don’t know how reliable my information is.

 

Also I’ve never been to India. However I would like someone to ride on my shoulders while I peddle a tricycle. As a young child I was prevented from attempting this, I can only assume that sort of fun is illegal in Canada. India seems like a fun loving place. I bet mothers allow that sort of thing there.

 

***For those of you who don’t go red and shrivel up in the sun like a raisin a UV shirt blocks ninety to one hundred percent of UVA and UVB rays. For near albinos like Candy and I this type of clothing is a necessity for all outdoor activities. We combine it with 110 SPF sunscreen and then complain about feeling burnt. The Irish are fun to kiss but you probably shouldn’t procreate with them if you ever want to sit out on a beach.

Oprah Wants You To Eat Jesus

It’s the time of darkness and frozen water here in Canada town which means that along with wearing two pairs of pyjama pants around the house to keep warm, it is also the time that Oprah releases her list of favourite things.

I’ve spoken before about how much I want Oprah to love me. And in the same way that girls follow their boyfriends to motocross races and pretend to enjoy the sound of roaring engines and the smell of testosterone flying about, the surest way to make someone love you is by pretending to enjoy what they are interested in. Hence why every November I rush out to the stores and ooh and ahh over Oprah’s favourite things; I want her to love me. Even loving me a little would do.

Thus in the name of making Oprah love me, I shall share some of the more special items on her list so that you too may love them and hopefully in some sort of strange karmic equation this will result in the media titan adoring me just a little.

Even if you aren’t Christian, everyone needs to go out and buy the Oprah approved nativity scene. Because it’s made of chocolate and everyone loves chocolate. Every part of these adorable figurines is edible from the tiny horse’s mane to the newborn babe himself. There’s nothing better than shouting out “Who wants to eat Jesus?” at a family gathering.

Oprah wants everyone to wear muumuus to bed. This isn’t a new concept, for years Lee Valley has been hocking dresses for men to sleep in during the winter. These wide robes are just like the Lee Valley version only they have spandex. And as everyone knows spandex makes the world go round. Quite literally, since spandex’s incorporation into most women’s clothing, obesity rates have skyrocketed. Everyone needs to buy this and then think about how much Oprah should love me while wearing it.

The muumuus look just like this but are eighty percent more sexy. Which is kind of like multiplying zero by eighty. (Photo Credit : ebay.ca)

The muumuus look just like this but are eighty percent more sexy. Which is kind of like multiplying zero by eighty. (Photo Credit : ebay.ca)

One of Oprah’s fondest desires is for everyone to be skinny. Every month she gives out tips on how to be a healthier you. Thus I can only conclude that her recommendation that to buy flesh coloured nail polish is a part of this quest. Perhaps it makes your fingers look longer and more slender if your nails are the same colour as your skin? I haven’t a clue. Whatever the reason, you need to go out and purchase some matching flesh tone nail polish immediately. You can wear it while you type up an email to Oprah about how she should love me.

Since I don’t use body wash or soap for that matter, you my Unwashed public, will need to purchase and use this next Oprah recommended item on my behalf. Based on the price alone, this product must smell like heaven crossed with a baby in a peach grove. While you are walking around smelling stupendous you can think about how awesome it would be to watch me be interviewed by Oprah. I know, you’d love it as much as I would.

Of course no Favourite Things List would be complete without an excessively superfluous item which you should buy just because it’s extravagant. May I suggest that all of my readers buy the bright orange three hundred dollar jewelry box that Oprah likes? You can give it to everyone on your list, even the men; all those compartments would be perfect for fishing lures.

The Only Stores I Make Lists For Are The Ones That Sell Liquor

Not really however the series of texts that I sent to Roscoe would make you think otherwise.

From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:52 PM

We are out of wine. Please bring some home with you, it will make me a nicer person.

From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:53 PM

And by nicer person what I mean is drunk. Which is as close to nice as I get.

From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:54 PM

In fact I was once called “agreeable” when I was tipsy.

From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:54 PM

Which is the opposite of what I am now, you’re at risk of losing an arm to biting if you come home without wine.

From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:56 PM

Which even if you happen to have chainmail stashed in the car to protect your appendages, is still not a good thing- human bites are super infectious.

From The Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:57 PM

Also I love you.

From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:57 PM

But I would love you more with wine.*

From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:58 PM

I’d also bite you less. That sounds dirty but it’s meant to be intimidating.

*Now this would make a good greeting card. Appropriate for all occasions. I would love most things more with wine. I’m not alone in this either. Paul Johnson from The Good Greatsby freely admits to enjoying his children’s company more with alcohol.

Also no Roscoes were harmed in the making of this post. The man had the good sense to bring home two bottles of hootch.

Here’s a Can of WD 40 From Your Secret Santa

I was at work the other day and saw a bag of Epsom salts on a coworker’s desk. There was a small tag on the package that read “From Your Secret Santa”. Seeing as this particular coworker was pregnant and could benefit from relaxing in a tub full of warm but not too warm water- this was an excellent gift.

The moment hammered home to me why I am not buying gifts for any of my or Roscoe’s family this year. While an extremely thoughtful coworker thought to purchase this woman Epsom salts as a Secret Santa. I would have purchased salt. Just salt. Because it’s a requirement for most recipes and it makes everything taste better, ergo in my eyes a box of salt is not only a perfectly acceptable but practical gift.

Other things which I deem to be perfectly reasonable gifts are; windshield washer fluid- because this is Canada and it is winter after all. As well as toilet paper because everyone uses it. Personally I recommend the last item as a potential gift for everyone on your list because if a friend seems upset over this gift it’s perfectly reasonable to assume that they have questionable hygiene habits. Thus you probably shouldn’t be friends with them anymore and this gift giving act has saved you the trouble of an awkward friendship terminating discussion.

After receiving a fire extinguisher and three bags of milk for his birthday two years ago Roscoe took over the responsibility of buying gifts for his and my family. He also tells me explicitly what to purchase for him. Personally I feel this is a little unfair especially after I thoughtfully presented him with thirty 100W incandescent light bulbs for our last anniversary. They met the cheesy “You light up my life” criteria while being functional. I mean really, who doesn’t like light?

Regardless I’ve lost gift giving privileges and am prohibited from joining in on such practices at work due to Roscoe’s fear that I’ll be sacked immediately for giving what are truly awesome and sensible gifts.

A residential smoke detector is the most famil...

This is a great present too because everyone is supposed to have one in their basement but doesn’t. I’d include partially charged batteries to make their holiday more exciting when the “Low Battery” beeps goes off in the dead of night. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What Writing One Thousand Six Hundred and Sixty Seven Words a Day Is Like

At first it’s awful. Because you think you aren’t funny at all.

And then you accept not being funny. Which makes everything ok and somehow you manage to be funny again.

And then you skip a day. Which is fine, these things happen.

But then you skip another day. And you pretend that’s fine too. You can make it up on the weekend- in the words of the youth “Whatevs”.

And then the weekend arrives and you realize you have to write eight thousand words and you’re all

“This is the end of my life!”

And then you get bedsores from sitting in your kitchen chair, not moving and staring at a computer screen. So you vow never ever, ever to get behind again.

For a little while you don’t. And you even get used to writing THAT MUCH every single day, day in day out.

It becomes a thing that you do. Other people have fun lives in the evenings and you write.

But then something happens again and you miss a day. Which is ok, these things happen, it’s just sixteen hundred words, why you banged that out in under two hours last night, no biggie, break it up over a couple of days.

True to your word, you do makeup a little bit writing twenty one hundred words the next day. But then, oh that nasty life, it happens again. And suddenly you find yourself staring down the barrel of five thousand words for one weekend.

So like any good person you put it off. Until seven pm when Canada has become a cold, dark, horrible foreboding place that’s going to sit on your chest and feed you the monthly writing challenge until you cry and churn out the necessary words.

For such a polite country Canada can be a dick sometimes.

So you write words. And you don’t like them. So you write more words. And you like some of them. Then you email your friend who tells you to keep going. So you write about cupcakes because who doesn’t love cupcakes then you look at the screen and think “My God why am I writing about cupcakes?”

That’s what National Novel Writing Month is like. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get up and stretch because my butt is numb.

*I didn’t actually get bedsores. It just felt like I did. I’m fairly certain my butt has retained the shape of my wooden chairs though.

Illicit Sugar and Job Confusion

Once upon a time, when I thought glitter glue was a necessary addition to all objects, my father worked for a company that made chocolate bars. Technically he was a marketing manager, but at seven years of age his job title was irrelevant.

Black Chocolate in Japan

The cupboard contents of my childhood home. (Photo credit: gullevek)

The more important part to my young mind and mouth was that this job resulted in every cupboard in our house being stocked with some type of delicious treat. Everyday my father was sent home with an edible good to sample and create a detailed description about. A man can only consume so much sugar before he begins to stash it with the coffee mugs, next to canned corn and behind the stand up mixer. As far as I was concerned this was the next best thing to being fathered by Santa Claus himself.

Life was not all rainbows and unicorns in my childhood home. Although we were surrounded by chocolate, my sister and I could not technically eat all of the chocolate. We had to ask permission. Nearly always the answer was “No”. However we discovered a loophole in the parental framework; what my parents did not know about, we could secretly consume.

Diana and I later parlayed this rule into the consumption of my parent’s old alcohol. As a teenager my sister spent an inordinate amount of time searching for dusty bottles of booze in our basement to decant into inconspicuous containers. Our crime was discovered eight years later when the house was being renovated and my mother was puzzled by a box of twenty cobweb covered bottles of hootch, each with only a couple of milliliters left. God bless my near teetotaling parents’ drinking habits.

I digress. In Canada the legal age that one may stay at home alone is ten. This was an excellent year for me as I discovered a fifteen pound box of abandoned chocolate chips next to a stack of two year old flyers advertising a new candy bar. I ate nearly a third of my bootleg bounty before sharing the news with my sister.

When I was twelve, my father changed jobs and began working for a tea company. Supposedly it was a better position but from my preadolescent point of view it was a step down. In my mind our family was probably one job change away from the poor house.

In high school, my father changed careers again, no longer was he concerned with the colour of tea or chocolate packaging however I never quite figured out what he did. To this day if asked I will answer “Um…..? He’s a banker? He works for a bank? He talks to a lot of people. Stocks?”

My dad has repeatedly attempted to explain his role but he always includes unnecessary technical details which confuse the issue. Once, Phillip my sister’s giant boy friend explained what he did, and everything made sense. Unfortunately then my father tried to elaborate on the topic and my understanding was lost.

Here’s what I know

  1. My father goes to work everyday
  2. He wears a suit
  3. He talks to a lot of people.

Based on this I like to assume that what he does is very important but it’s entirely possible that he could be a well dressed ice cream man.

My father's office. (Photo Credit: www.dreammakericecreamcarts.com)

My father’s office. (Photo Credit: http://www.dreammakericecreamcarts.com)