A true family leader.
As such, I often find it necessary to call family meetings so that my wife Rachelle, and our nearly three year-old son, Jones, can discuss important issues as they arise. These are the minutes from a recent meeting:
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Michael: Okay, Meeting #36 is now in order. On Friday we’ve been invited to Claire’s for dinner. However, it’s not a simple matter. There are options, so please listen carefully. We can go in the afternoon, with Jones, and have a swim then an early dinner, getting back in time for Jones’ bedtime, or we can go over later, without Jones, and have an adult meal. Concerns? Preferences? Please speak freely, this is a safe space.
Rachelle: Do you know where the corkscrew is?
Michael: Since when did we start buying wine that needed a corkscrew?
Jones: I WANT TO WATCH THE SCARY SKULLS!!
Michael: Jones, we are having a family meeting right now. You can watch a video later.
Jones: NO!!!
Rachelle: Found it! It was in your desk drawer. Amidst several corks.
Michael: Well, that’s odd.
Rachelle: Not if you’re a secret drinker, it’s not.
Michael: That’s a pretty big glass you’re pouring yourself.
Jones: SCARY SKULLS!! SCARY SKULLS! SCARY SKULLS!!
Michael: No Jones! We’re having a meeting here, and there will be no videos until we’ve come to a decision about dinner on Friday! Also, you get stigmata from watching too many videos. It’s very bad for your eyes, and you want to be able to see everything, just like the Falcon that soars in the sky above, right?
Jones: WANT TO SEE SCARY SKULLS!!
Michael: Sweet Jesus child, okay, okay, okay.
Rachelle: The optometrist said that by feeding him an excessive diet of videos in order to avoid responsible parenting and gain his approval you were putting him at risk for astigmatism, not stigmata. Stigmata is the spontaneous manifestation of marks on the body that correspond to Jesus’ crucifixion wounds,
while astigmatism is an eye problem.
Michael: Are you sure?
Rachelle: Yes.
Michael: Patricia Arquette. She was in a movie called Stigmata, wasn’t she? Now I remember! She was a hot hair dresser in that one.
Rachelle: Yes.
Michael: Remember the bath scene? She was having a bath and then some invisible demon seizes her and she’s trashing about like mad, kicking and flailing her arms, yet somehow, somehow you still don’t see anything? So unrealistic.
Rachelle: Yes, I thought the exact same thing. Stigmata, a movie about a sex bomb with demonic possession, was unrealistic because you never got to see the lead actress entirely naked.
Michael: Okay, let’s get back on track here. We have to figure out how we’re going to approach Friday.
Jones: Can I have strawberries, mommy? I want strawberries.
Rachelle: After dinner, sweetie.
Michael: What is for dinner anyway?
Rachelle: It was your turn to get it.
Michael: Oh. Right. Yeah, I was going to make a special rice and carrot thing in the Instant Pot.
Rachelle: We will all look forward to it, and by the way, I spoke with Claire and we’re going to go over around three, have a swim and a light snack, and then return home in time for Jones’ bedtime at 7:30.
Michael: Oh.
Michael: All in favour?
Michael: Okay, motion passes.
Michael: I think I read somewhere that the Instant Pot was dangerous, like a bomb, so maybe we can have Swiss Chalet instead. They’re offering crispy chicken as a featured item now. The Family Pak comes with pickles and dinner rolls. It’s a pretty solid deal.
]]>Appearing listless, she perked up when we approached and became animated at the sight of Heidi. I steered the dog toward her and the old woman nuzzled her ears and complimented her coat. We fell into the type of brief, friendly conversation you might imagine, “I am 89,” the woman stated flatly. “At 90, no more,” and she made a dismissive gesture, suggesting that would be the end. I asked if there was anything I could do to help her, “No, no. Thank you. I am old. I get tired so I sit to rest. You and nice dog go, I thank you,” and then she fanned us away with short, broken fingers.
A tall man stepped out of the recovery house at the end of the street. He was moving quickly, with anger in each step, and as soon as he hit the street he dug into his pocket, grabbed his smokes and lit one. On his calves were these horrible blotches that looked like a furious rash that was just now coming to order. On the steps above, leaning against the railing and watching him were three men. All of them looked uncomfortable in their scratchy shirts and ties, each one smoking and emitting a sense of deprivation and hostility that was palpable, even on the street beneath.
On Bloor we had the green light to cross but our passage was blocked by a luxury Mercedes that was situated directly in the middle of the pedestrian crosswalk. There was ample room for it to get out of the way and go either forward or back, but the driver at the wheel was distracted. She was texting, and as she was doing so she was smiling—maybe a good idea, the reception of happy news, calming plans. Normally I’d be touched by this glimpse into the small optimisms of a life, but by virtue of the hierarchy her car was designed to imply, all I could see was the sense of blind entitlement money bestows upon certain types of people.
We then popped into Queen Video to return a few rentals. The woman behind the counter, normally an enemy who refused to make eye contact or communicate beyond the rudimentary necessities of the job, was different. Typically sullen and angry, she was open and affable. She had abandoned her usual attire of severe glasses and a Death Metal Tee, and now in contacts she wore a heartbreakingly bad shade of eye shadow and the sort of top that an aunt from Scotland might send to you as a gift. For the first time in the five years that I have been going there, she wanted to give Heidi a treat. She spoke easily, talking of her own dog and a conversation developed between us and several other customers, each one of us saying things that made the others laugh, and whatever love had found the clerk was now beginning to spread.
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