The Results May Vary

Observations from my Mixed Up World

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Party Boy

From time to time, being the father of an aspiring actor makes me look back at how I handled various social situations.  I try to keep in mind that Milo is ten and compare what I was like and how I acted to how he is.  I am noticing more and more that this is a very humbling practice.  I was pretty out going and confident as a kid but but the words to describe me aren’t even on the same page that Milo is classified on.

Here is a fine example.  After the Performance Festival on Saturday, we went to a party hosted by a colleague of my wife.  We knew her and her family but pretty much no one else there.  As soon as we arrived, Milo interrupted my raid on someone’s beer cooler (I’d been unable to bring anything) complaining that he didn’t know anyone.  As I cracked open my newly acquired ice cold craft beer, I said to Milo, “For God’s sake, Milo.  You’re an actor.  You should have no problem meeting new people.  Just get going.”  I wasn’t even a quarter of the way through my beer when I noticed him with a really attractive young girl.  She was grinning like


a fool listening to him chat her up.  It was an odd chance that she was exactly his age, just a foot taller than him, in the same grade and looking for a friend to hang with.  They spent the evening attached at the hip and I was tickled to have Milo run up to me later in the evening to ask me what his cell number was since his new friend really wanted his number.  The bunch of guys that I was socializing with looked at me, looked at Milo and one guy says “Wow.  Your kids is really something.  He is so… confident.”  “Yeah,” I replied, “I plan to get a condom welded on him when he turns twelve.”  We all laughed but I think inside we were all thinking that none of us ever got a girl to ask for our number at his age.

One thing is certain about going to a party with Milo.  He’ll know everyone at the party before you are on your second drink.  People always comment that it freaks them out when he laughs at adult sarcasm and then can give as good as he gets.  I’m almost afraid to take him to New York City.  What are we in for??

(Photo of Milo and new friend sitting on a wall looking at his drama award.)

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My Unfortunate Dealings with the Tooth Fairy

Milo’s had quite the run on teeth this week.  In fact, he’s lost 3 molar.  And no, his only diet does not consist of toffee, Coke and Count Chocula cereal.  It’s just that time in a boy’s life


when your jaw needs to make room for new chompers.  There is one teeny, tiny problem.  Milo no longer believes in the tooth fairy.  He told me quite frankly not long ago he found it quite suspicious that the tooth fairy stored his old teeth in a decorative container a top his bookshelf.  He also made it known that he doubted the truthfulness of his mother’s insistence that the tooth fairy gave the teeth back to moms to treasure.  Milo has been quite appreciative of the contributions the tooth fairy made to his wallet however and he let it be known that it was fine for that part to continue on.

When the first tooth came out, I was quietly informed that I’d best leave a token beside his bed so his sister didn’t get disillusioned.  There went $2 bucks.

When the second tooth came out, I was reminded that his sister was a true believer and I’d best keep it that way.

When the third tooth came out, he went into my wallet and took out $5 bucks and let me know I was getting off easy if I didn’t want him to wreak everything for his sister and now I didn’t need to get up in the night to hide the money.  He was helping me really save on sleep.  Thanks.

So nice to be blackmailed by the tooth fairy.  Keep dreaming those dreams kids!

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Grammar Lesson

It was a lovely outdoor dinner.  Burgers, hot dogs and beer after a long hard day working in the yard.  In the middle of it all, Maya asked “Mom, do you say that fucking fly landed on dad?”  Despite the fact that I was studying my meal intently, I felt the laser beam glare from my wife almost knock me from my chair.  Seems casual swearing is my area of parental supervision.

“Maya, you shouldn’t talk like that”  I responded.

“But, is it right to say… that fucking fly landed on dad or do I say that fly landed on fucking daddy?” she queried.

“You shouldn’t be saying that at all.  But since you asked, if it’s the fly that’s bothering you then the fucking fly is correct grammar.” I instructed, “if it was me that was bothering you, then it would be the fly landed on fucking daddy.”

You can’t leave kids in ignorance.  Can you?

This is my 100th post.


True Story ends in Bad Joke

On the way home from singing lessons, Maya asked me, “Dad, can people talk when they are in Heaven?”  “To each other, I suppose.  But not to people who are still alive.” I responded.  “So, then Michael Jackson can talk to God, ‘cuz he’s dead?” she queried.  “Yup.” I said.  I was really thinking, “but God would tell him to Beat It!”

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Snapshots of a Photo Shoot

We’re gearing up for a big trip to New York City so that Milo can participate in the International Models and Talent Association (IMTA) competition in July.  That has meant extra acting classes and the need to update the shots in his portfolio.  Last Saturday, the agency brought a great photographer in from Michigan to do a photo shoot.  You’ve already seen the chilling picture I posted about doing Milo’s ironing so you can imagine the preparation needed.  It was the first time I got to attend a shoot as Milo did his last shoot with his mom.  We had a great day.  It was fascinating to see how Milo’s agent put clothes together to create a look and then worked with the hair and makeup stylist to create a whole image.  There were quite a few models around also getting looks put together and the whole atmosphere was pretty festive.  I’m continually impressed with what the agency pulls off but there were some great moments that stood out that day.  One of the models was doing a construction worker look with cut off jeans and a sleeveless jean jacket and doesn’t Geoff pull out a pair of 5″ stiletto heeled work boots.  Awesome.  I wish I took a picture of those boots.  I certainly enjoyed the discussion about which pair of boots looked best with another model’s little black dress.  It’s pretty cool how a pair of boots changes the whole impact of a look.  Grommets, no grommets, shiny or dull, cork heel or platform.  It’s more work than it seems.

Milo got to shoot classic head shots in a solid blue top, green pants combo.  There was a slick looking look with a purple dress shirt and a green tie.  Then he moved into some artistic looks.  The 1920’s newsboy tough and the jaded punk looks I got some pictures of.

Without further ado… here are some shots I took with my phone while on location.

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No Maya, the house is not haunted.

Lately our house seems haunted.  I don’t mean things mysteriously moving or seeing ghostly projections.  Our haunting is all about sounds.  Inhuman wailing sounds.  The kinds of sounds that tormented souls in Hell are expected to make.  The sounds that make all of the hair on your head stand up.  Yup, the kitten went in to heat.

As much as I’d like to blame nature or the increased amount of daylight we’re receiving, I can’t.  Not that I’d be allowed to blame anything or anyone else, since for 3 months my wife has been gently and not so gently reminding me to make an appointment for Ginger to get fixed.  Despite the eloquence and insight you’ve come to expect from me, and I shudder to shatter your image of me, I confess that I really need a deadline to get things done.  Since the cat didn’t have a label on her saying “Best spay this cat before May 2013”, I wasn’t driven to make the call.  There are 3 humans and 4 felines in the house that aren’t appreciating my lack of urgency.  Sigh.

I can live with disappointing people but karma really did reach out and kick me in the ass last night.  I have a ritual I need follow every night or I can’t sleep.  I go down stairs, ensure every cat is in the house and has food in their bowls.  Then I check each door and window to ensure they’re shut, locked and blinds down.  Then and only then can I retreat upstairs and set the house alarm.  I’ve been nervous of the dark since I was a kid and when I do my nightly checks, I’m pretty certain there’s an axe murderer around every corner.  Having kids that leave doors unlocked and not discovering them until 11 pm is cause for a house search, since the murderers have likely had time to find a good hiding spot.  Despite knowing how unlikely there is anyone in the garage, I always expect a wandering, hungry vampire to slam the door right into my face when I open it to check the big door is closed.  And I never, ever, ever leave a knife on the counter since that is a clear invitation for the universe to hire someone to plunge it into me in an ironic gesture.

With that insight into my nighttime paranoia, imagine I went into my darkened dining room to close the open window when unbeknownst to me, Ginger has crept up behind me with her kitty cat stealth.  Her unholy yowl definitely stopped my heart.  What horrible and tortured creature possessed my tiny orange and white ball of love, I cannot imagine.  The immediate flood of adrenaline gave me the superpower to leap backwards over the dining room table and kick started my heart like a million joule defibrillator.  Oh I was alive but for how long???  It was a split second later that rational clarity reminded me of Ginger’s affliction and I nearly collapsed in relief.  Of course, I couldn’t sleep for 2 more hours and a dram or two of whiskey.  At least my wife had the grace to drift off to sleep with a smug smile on her face and chose not to thank the universe for providing that pay back she was still planning.

Operation is on Tuesday.  Add Ginger to your prayers that day.  Thanks.

Model Dad or Dad of a Model

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Model Dad or Dad of a Model

When I left the military, there were two things that I knew I wouldn’t miss; dusting and ironing. Thanks to L.L. Bean I don’t need to iron shirts or pants and can still look great at work. But, woe is me, my kid is a model. Today I ironed 15 pairs of pants and countless shirts to get ready for a photo shoot tomorrow. I just love that his success is built on my sweat. Thank God, the other one plays soccer!

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Remembering that Day… you know… that one. (sigh) The day I got neutered.

It was 2 years ago yesterday and I remember it so clearly.  Finally, a life altering decision was catching up to me and I had to put my body on the line to cash the cheque.  At the time, it seemed that the transaction fee was awfully steep.

Three years prior (five years ago), I’d finally broken down and agreed to discuss with my family doctor the idea of having a vasectomy.  After the formality of asking me if I understood the consequences (as if I’d consider letting someone close to my nuts with a sharp object without considering a lot of consequences!) and asking the who, what, where and why questions regarding my sex life current and future (good hoping to improve, thanks very much) she referred me to the local surgeon.  Glancing down at the paper in my hand, stifling my schoolboy giggles, I looked my doctor in the eye and asked “Is this really his name?”  “Yes, ” she replied deadpan, “It’s doctor Fallis.”  Sure this was all a big cosmic joke, I headed off to have Dr. Fallis examine the area below my phallus.

I should let you know that when I get nervous I giggle like a schoolboy as opposed to when I get neurotic and I shake like a vibrator.  So, I ended up sitting in the waiting room giggling like an idiot at an old copy of Cosmo waiting to see the Phallus doctor… I mean, Dr. Fallis.  Turned out he was a very pleasant young doctor who chatted me up as if it were a first date and then invited me to sit in his special chair to see if I was a good candidate for his in-office special.  Hmmm.  Third base right away.  Wow.  I should have been a doctor.  I’d never had another man fondle my testicles before and while is was not painful it was rather uncomfortable which of course made me giggle more.  He bounced my manhood in his gloved hand one last time and announced that my balls were perfect. (I’d always hoped but never dared to ask)  I half expected him to light up a cigarette and I assure you I was ready for a stiff drink.  “Call me…” he said as I departed feeling a lot dirtier than when I’d arrived, “to set up an appointment.”  And I did, about 2 years later.  I guess the testicle trade in Niagara had shriveled up or he’d juiced it dry because when I called I learned that Dr. Fallis was no longer working in the phallus department.  Damn.

Back to my family doctor, who scoffed in disbelief that I had taken so long with this trifling thing, and a new referral to what she considered the industry leader, So Simple Vasectomy in Oakville.  The process this time was a bit different and the referral with the doctor was done 15 minutes before the operation.  With a smaller window to weasel out, he’d done thousands of successful procedures.  I also figure since the wives are in the waiting room there is a much lower chance of backing out of the operation.

I drove with my wife up to Oakville on the appointed morning feeling pretty nervous and tense.  I need to be clear that I wanted this operation and I was certain I didn’t want more kids but the idea of willingly letting someone cut open my body and make changes to plumbing that was working fine seems very invasive and unnatural.  I can’t watch nurses give needles on TV so I was very tense.  “Just keep thinking about all the sex we’re gonna be having.”  my wife encouraged.  Sure, I thought as long as there are no infections, complications, last minute cancer discoveries or God forbid sneezes while the doctor has the scalpel in his hand. “Yeah,” I replied weakly, “More sex… yay.”

After a very quick discussion with the nice Dutch doctor where I once again restated my understanding that this was permanent, not reversible and that the only thing scarier than the operation was having more kids, I found my self in a short hospital gown, stark naked underneath.  Into my examining room came the receptionist.  To say she was old and conservative looking was like saying the Grand Canyon was a hole with some water in it.  This little old granny smile at me and showed me a round sticker.  “Now dear” she began “this is some freezing for before the procedure.”  She started pantomiming as if she had a 10 inch penis.  “I want you to lift up your penis as high as you can and stick the sticker right at the base.  Don’t miss now, or the freezing won’t be in the right place.  You’re going to feel a little numb in that area after that.”  Mortified, embarrassed and humiliated that a centagenarian needed to explain how to freeze my balls to me, I indicated that I had no questions and began to line up the sticker.  I wanted to get the placement right because I figured without the freezing it would be like having a hot poker rammed down my Johnson and I was pretty sure I wanted to avoid that.

Shortly thereafter, I was laying on the table while the doctor began pulling my numb business up through the centre of a square donut shaped draping cloth.  I was amazed at how calm I felt.  “Wow” I pondered, “the anti-depressants I’m taking must be working really well today.  I’m cool, calm and collected.”  The doctor chatted while working away.  Turns out he did something like 10 to 15 procedures a day.  That’s like 7800 testicles chopped off every year.  No wonder he was so good.  “Ok, I’ve made the puncture.  Now I need to freeze the tube.  This is the part that hurts.”  What followed was the same feeling that Milo had given me for years each time he playfully whacks me in the balls.  The difference this time was that 5 seconds after the hurt the ache disappeared.  Hmmm.  Not so bad.  Thank you freezing.  The second testicle was worse because you knew what to expect and tensed up for it.  All in all, that was it.  I spent 30 minutes with ice on my package and then squeezed my self into a pair of medium underwear (2 sizes too small) and strapped an athletic support over that.  My wife drove me home and I spent the next 2 days icing myself every hour and putting ointment on my tiny little incision.  No muss, no fuss.

Two years later, I am happy, healthy and enjoy the freedom of not needing to stop and find a condom.  Since my wife’s co-workers read this, I am not able to describe of the the gymnastics and acts of depravity that we can now engage in.  If you haven’t gotten clipped yet, go do it.  I’m a believer.