Hormone Hair Hell (how my teenaged son lost his tiny mind over a girl)

SON SLEEPS IN.

Son starts homework later than promised on Sunday, watches TV, talks about how he might do something later, watches TV, plays computer games, watches TV.

GIRLFRIEND CALLS AT 1:30 P.M.

He can go over at 2:30 p.m. and spend some hours with her after not seeing her all weekend. He's walking on air, instructing dad how teenagers work the women nowadays, details his plans for amour.

In a manner of speaking, of course.

Then plans start to go awry.

1:35 p.m.: Son realizes his favourite shirt he's been wearing all weekend stinks. Asks if it can be washed and will it be dry for planned departure time by bike at 2:30 p.m. Dad says he'll try.

1:40 p.m.: Son hops into shower.

1:50 p.m.: Son leaves towels all over the place, as previously instructed not to. Gets hell from dad.

1:52 p.m.: Son asks if shirt is ready yet. Receives evil eye from dad that always means "That's a stupid question." Does not take news that shirt is still in washer very well. Dad snickers.

1:58 p.m.: Son dries hair somewhat with newly purchased hair dryer, which he (alert the media) actually likes.

1:59 p.m.: Son applies newly purchased mousse to new hairdo, tries to fix hair in steamed up mirror. Panic starts to REALLY set in. Hair is "too puffy," son says. Dad laughs.

2:02 p.m.: Son asks if shirt ready yet. Dad says he'll put it in dryer now but can't promise anything. Son harumphs.

2:03 p.m.: Son starts falling apart.

Now that he's a full-blown 15-year-old singer in a rock n' roll band of no repute and is on his third girlfriend, he's decided to drive his dad nuts (and himself crazy) with a new doo...

2:35 p.m.: Son is whining about his hair, has wet it several more times, has been lectured by dad that girlfriend won't even notice difference and his hair will be blown all over during bike ride anyway.

2:40 p.m.: Son has now cleaned up room, packed things for dad to take to his place later. Son quietly admits he forgot to use sister's hair straightener on particularly crucial lick of hair.

2:43 p.m.: Dad removes son's favourite shirt from dryer, hands it to him. He puts it on. His hair has been repaired. His shirt is dry. The sky has not fallen. He allows me to take pictures.

Isn't he just the happy camper now? And all for a girl...wonder how that happens...

Spring cleaning for the single male

CONTRARY TO POPULAR BELIEF, SINGLE MALES ACTUALLY TAKE SPRING CLEANING VERY SERIOUSLY.

I know this, because I am a single male, at least currently, sort of, in body. And so as spring gets sprung, I must pay heed to my hormonal seasonal requirement to throw out the old and bring in the new.

Or something like that.

Besides, my lease is due and I have to take stock of my surroundings and find whatever dead bodies are around, what repairs need to be made, what I'm going to insist they fix.

Before I sign on the bottom line for yet another unsubstantiated increase in rent.

So I am not going to show you the dark space behind my washer-dryer, behind my fridge, behind my couch, behind whatever I own, that may be harboring dead creatures or decaying food.

No, my focus is on my dreaded storage room, which houses my water heater, my tools that I have not had any reason to use since I've been in this apartment, and the dreaded "space."

That is, the "space" that is the "crawlspace," that is the hatch that I have not lifted for months, save for perhaps the time that I threw my goofy son's body in there after yet another failed test at school.

There is no point showing you the moribund spring cleaning that I go through...the sweeping of the kitchen floor, the wiping of the toilet, and other such things that I do once or twice a year.

No, to be precise, my main focus is on the trap door in my storage room, that crawl space that I hear sounds coming from all winter. It's a space I can never really be sure I haven't thrown my son into.

But, according to the following pictures taken today, I haven't. Or at least there are no bones there to reveal that I have. Which is a good thing.


Above, the trap door.

Above, the cluttered storage room it's in...

Below, the trap door is lifted...pretty boring, just a bunch of sand, mostly....

I took pictures in all directions...I see no dead bodies of sons or Homo Escapeons or other bad things...although this pic directly below, with a spider web, is positive...at least a sign of life...

As you can see, it's pretty boring...so what am I going to complain about now? The sticking bedroom door, I suppose, or the noisy air conditioner, or the lousy snow-clearing following a winter storm.

But that all seems so far away now. No, damn it, I'm just going to sign the lease and stay here one more year. And wonder what ugly things are hiding behind the fridge, the couch, the washer-dryer...you know.

Next: Spring fashions for the single male

Taking a Flyer

IF YOU EVER WANT TO SAVE YOUR OWN LIFE, TAKE A FLYER.

Because the flyers I receive in my mailbox every day, well, that's what they purport to do, right?

A real estate agent is going to sell your house in 10 minutes. A car dealership is going to give you a car for $0 down and $0 per month for the rest of your life.

We're in the middle of a provincial election campaign now, so the political candidates are promising to put more money into health, crime-fighting and fixing roads.

Ha!

Recently, I was going to save my life simply by turning to some religious nut-case guy, based on this flyer I received. Unfortunately, it turned out I had to work that weekend.

So I could not save my life that weekend.

So in the meantime, I've been going to the grocery store checking out cantaloupes and the like, waiting for another life-saving opportunity to come knocking.
And, of course, it has.

So this weekend, I'm off to become the next "Rich Dad." I'm off to fast-track my life and become so filthy rich that I can hire someone to blog for me.

If you never hear from me again, it's because I've bought a yacht and am now living somewhere off the Bahamas. And my life, magically, will have been truly saved.

All because I took a flyer.

DINNER AT MR. AND MRS. HOMELY ESCAPEONS'

I HAVE BEEN SO REMISS.

After several invites for supper over to the palatial abode of Mr. and Mrs. Homely Escapeons in the past several months, I finally accepted Sunday out of fear of death...or worse.

I go every once in a while at Mrs. Escapeons' insistence, if only to get a chance to hug her closely and to get a kiss, and to be jumped on by resident off-spring Ridley, a holy terror.

And to laugh and joke, of course, with the father and den mother of the household, Homely Escapeons himself, who I see every week or every other week at my place.

Mrs. Escapeons, looking resplendent on a cool but otherwise fine spring day and with recently transformed red hair (she's hot whatever colour, but forget I said that), accepted my hug.

And then she gave me hell for not being at their place since January 1.

She was later proven wrong, because I WAS at their place for a get-together with fellow bloggers Brian the Mennonite, Joyce of the Chronicles of Blunderview and Rey in February.

Still, I had not visited nearly as soon or as often as I should have. I must have been full of gas or something.

And that is a suitable segue into what occurred there over at least part of my several hours there on Sunday.

Mr. and Mrs. Homely Escapeons have a lovely young son, Ridley, who I am very proud to say calls me Uncle Chris.

He is the apple of Mrs. Escapeons' eye, and he and I kid all the time. I would be tempted to say he spits in Mr. Escapeons' eye, but that would be a falsehood.

He's a beautiful child and Mr. Escapeons is a fantastic father, as much as Mrs. Escapeons is every child's dream as a mother.

This is THE poster for a beautiful family, sincerely. Two unbelievable parents nurturing a strong young boy, and three other lovely kids in the picture.

You can only imagine.

But back to Sunday.

When it comes to kids and kidding and young boys and old boys who can't get over it and love that they refuse to grow up, what could be more fun than this?

Note the printing on Ridley's shirt.

Note Ridley putting some character hero, found in the garden after a long winter, being the first of several inanimate objects to test out the new toy.

First, I need to say that it was Mrs. Escapeons, not Mr., who broke down and bought this product for Ridley at the local store after scores of shoppers laughed as he laughed playing with it.

(Allie Baby, this one's on you)

OK, that revelation is out there.

Having said that, I had to focus on this because Mr. Escapeons did not want me to report that he spent the entire day drilling millions of holes in his deck to relieve the moisture within.

Anyway, the grape salad, the cheeseburgers, the barbecued farmer's sausage -- they were all fantastic.

Of course the Escapeons' only had Coke, instead of Pepsi, for my rye, but I can take it.

Still, here's a glimpse at parts of the rest of the afternoon...and if you've never had fun with a Whoopee Cushion, then a pox on you and go out and buy one and inject some fun into your life.

Ridley, like any normal young boy who has heard his own fart and laughed hysterically, poses for a picture of him having the power of all powers: the ability to make a similar sound on his own!

Homo Escapeons, who is not nearly as much a fan of bodily function sounds as Ridley or I are, but with his stupid eye protection glasses still on from drilling millions of unnecessary holes in his deck that he refused to let me blog about, plays along...kind of.

Almost, that is, as Ridley forces him to sit on the cushion. Ridley and I laugh. HE ponders his wasted day and sore back, or something.

However, I thought it was a little unfair when Ally Baby brought out some chips, a gigantic rye and COKE, grabbed my point-and-shoot camera and photographed me with my mouth full of chips.

Then, being the best buds for life that we are, soul brothers and saviours of the world and all that, me and Mr. Escapeons exchanged our lifelong show of respect for each other before supper.