WOMEN ARE FOR TEASING...and other stuff

THIS is a picture, one of maybe 50 or so, that I have on my fridge. It's me, about 20 years ago, making a goofy pose for a picture as I'm making absurdly silly, boy-like faces at my eminently teasable sister.

Think about that...

I was teasing my sister -- one of three I have, all of them younger than me to go with two brothers -- as she slept on a hot afternoon at a cottage on Wallace Lake in the wilds of eastern Manitoba in the beautiful Canadian Shield.

And I was getting huge laughs out of it. And I have been doing it for three generations of women in my life.

My sister (who would many years later struggle with breast cancer and survive the removal of both her breasts, and become a huge inspiration for me) promptly woke up and just about kicked me in the gonads. Mission accomplished, gonads still intact.

And now fast-forward to yesterday, and I was teasing my daughter by taking pictures of her in her pyjamas, a big zit on her cheek, hair all tussled, looking not like she'd want to look for a picture, hiding her face behind a cushion.

The pictures themselves? Lost, unfortunately, somewhere between a digital camera I still don't know how to properly use and a fancy-schmancy computer I still don't know how to properly operate.

Suffice to say, said daughter was protesting as dad took the unwanted pix as he was laughing, and she was crying and cursing and laughing all at the same time...

So the moral of today's moribund missive is that women are many things to men, the most basic of them, of course, being that they are indispensable and our reason for being and everything, basically, that we live for.

But an inescapable, unavoidable, thoroughly enjoyable and necessary element of that male/female reality is that they are teasable, and we males wouldn't be doing our duty -- or making their lives worth living -- without teasing them beyond all reason.

All of the most precious women in my life -- my mom, who we incessantly teased about her manner of even saying hello on the phone; my grandmother, a French-Canadian under-five-footer who I'd pinch on her large bum and turn around in her swivel chair (you HASS-HOLE!).

My three sisters, who still treasure my teasing and give it back to me in spades and much more; all the women I've been with romantically, in one way or another that only enriched our relationships; and now my daughter.

They all have had to endure my silly, roll-your-eyes, moronic, kid-like humor that's modelled after, let's see, Agent 86 on Get Smart, Hogan's Heroes, Ace Ventura, Mr. Bean, Austin Powers...you get it.

And they love it, or at least I hope so. And if I didn't have the freedom to do it and to have women who love me accept the corny stuff and laugh at it, and let themselves be the targets of it, life just wouldn't be so much fun.

PITTER PATTER...POSH PEEKS IN ON 'PEG

ALERT THE MEDIA!!!

We've had the Pope pounding our pavement, the Royals regaling us with countless visits and we are the birthplace of Winnie the Pooh.

But our lil' ole Winnipeg on Canada's bald prairie was the momentary epicentre of the entertainment universe this past week when Posh Spice, also known as Victoria Beckham, showed up mysteriously for a whirlwind visit.

Get your fix below, taken from a wire service...

...The pop princess and British socialite, also known as Posh Spice during her turn in the former musical group The Spice Girls, was in Winnipeg on undisclosed business since flying into the city late Wednesday night.

She's married to Madrid-based soccer star David Beckham, who is currently playing in the 2006 World Cup (and who scored his team's only goal in a 1-0 win over Ecuador yesterday to send them to the quarter-finals--ed).

At the airport, she was photographed with a representative of a Winnipeg-based garment company that makes 1921 jeans, a line of designer denim snapped up by celebrities like Jennifer Lopez, Teri Hatcher, and Paris Hilton.

Beckham kept a low profile in Winnipeg. What did she think of Winnipeg?

"It's been lovely. Oh, it's been lovely," she said.

---

Personally, I always liked Ginger the best.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled lives...

SHE'S PRICELESS...AN EXPENSIVE PRICELESS

THE picture doesn't necessarily do her justice, but this is my lovely daughter.

It seems like only yesterday that I was finally throwing out the soother she would never surrender, holding her at 4 a.m. because of her colic, swinging her round and round the way dads do because their kids ask them to -- and dislocating her shoulder.

Today, just recently turned 18, she's a mere few days away from Grade 12 graduation, an Honours student, already accepted into first year university with scholarships, and trying to sink her now-single father into bankruptcy...like, To Dad, with Love.

Not really. And I do it lovingly.

But in the past six months, being the extraordinarily organized femme fatale that she is, she has assigned to me the grad-related monetary tasks as follows for her big night Tuesday of finally advancing past high school and into a new stage of her life:

1. Grad purse? Dad, $50.
2. Grad shoes? Dad, $75.
3. Grad pearl necklace? Dad, $375 (gulp, I went hog wild)
4. Grad earrings? Dad, $65.
4. Grad fundraising projects? Dad. Sell chocolates, sell baking goods, sell coupon books, finance band trip. Predictably, I simply bought all of these goods myself rather than find the time to try to peddle them to others. Estimated cost to self: $500.
5. Grad pictures? Dad, around $200.

Other:
A. An idea was floating around I would give her my car as a graduation gift. Uh, no.
B. Today, I bought her a heart-shaped pendant/locket thingy that can be inscribed and hold her pic in it ("Silver, dad, not gold"). Around $350.
C. Sigh. Probably, at some point, she'll get the car too...

I'm sure I'm forgetting half the things I should be mentioning. Of course, this cost is a pittance in relation to the importance my daughter holds in my life and, even more, the importance that this day will hold in her life.

I'll be sitting there at the grad reception/dinner Tuesday night, contemplating how that little soother-sucking ball of a bawling baby could have so quickly morphed into the confident, vibrant being she is now.

And my chest will be pumped out just a little bit more than usual...even though my wallet will be considerably lighter.

IS THERE, OR ISN'T THERE?

STRANGELY, but perhaps very fittingly, I'm listening to "The way it is" by Bruce Hornsby and the Range as I start this post...

TWO images from a sunny, winny, wild Thursday prompt me to pose and ponder what may be only the first instalment of my continual, quizzical look at the super self-absorbed universal question, IS THERE OR ISN'T THERE A GOD?

Image 1

As I'm driving into work this morning on a busy street in my Canadian prairie city of about 3/4 of a million people, a man is standing, his head down, motionless, in tattered clothes, turned away from me, in the way of oncoming traffic moving in the other direction.

I slow down and notice a considerate motorist who has stopped in front of the man, his four-way flashers on, his cellphone to his ear, presumably calling the police or some social work agency to alert them to the danger the man is posing to himself.

Alone. Alive, maybe barely. Oblivious or maybe making himself purposely obvious, crying out. Should I have stopped? Stopped the traffic? Approached, asked him what he was doing? Tried to help? I didn't. Off to work. Where's he now? Who's he now?

Image 2

A gentle knock on my apartment door after I've arrived home from work, still contemplating Image 1. Two young, smart-looking men, maybe 20 if that, with name tags that say "Jesus Christ" in big type and then, presumably, their names in smaller type.

I can't read it. All I can see is Jesus Christ.

Black suits, black ties, pearly white message. "Can we talk to you about the word of Christ?"

"No thanks," I respond. "I already have my own brand of faith."

"Well, do you know of any of your neighbors who might want to hear about spreading the word of Christ?"

"No. I guess you'll just have to knock on their doors and ask them yourself."

They're polite and leave, knocking on the next door.

And all I can think about is Sun Myung Moon and the cult that was the Moonies, which a friend of mine was caught up in as a 20-something guy who didn't have many answers to the questions his soul was asking him.

And I wondered just where were the precious hearts and souls of these two young guys, who should be so full of their OWN spirit and verve and free thought...and will they ever get their lives back.