I'll never be accused of dressing like George Clooney (or looking like him for that matter). It's not that I don't like nice clothes. When tastefully chosen and worn at the appropriate function, clothes can go along way to make a person feel comfortable, if not even somewhat special. Have you ever seen a guy in a tuxedo who did not think that he was, at that moment, the "cat's meow", the subject of every woman's desires? How about the well known expression that women find it hard to resist a man in uniform? Hollywood movie makers long ago understood the attractiveness of a leading man cloaked in a spiffy military uniform, or being one of the "boys in blue", or even wearing the rubber boots and britches of a fireman. Why do you think retail businesses, like Tim Horton's, McDonald's and KFC, require their employees to wear uniforms? The clothes send a message of cleanliness and professionalism and that helps to keep customers coming back.
As a former RCMP officer, I know all too well the symbolism of the uniform. The RCMP knows it too. In the early 1990's, the Force negotiated a deal with Disney to share in the profits generated by the sale of all of that Mountie memoriabilia. None of these items is more recognizable or more popular than the Mountie's red tunic,officially known as the Red Serge. It doesn't seem to matter if it is on a minature figurine of a person or a moose, those things sell.
The RCMP also uses the uniform like a carrot placed in front of an unwilling jackass. Upon arriving at the training centre in Regina, every recruit is issued several types of uniforms. Encompassed in these are the traditional, everyday working clothes and the vaunted formal Review Order dress that includes the Red Serge. The catch is that newbies in training are not allowed to wear the actual uniform of the RCMP. The Force has learned that it works very well if new Mounties learn that the priviledge of wearing the real uniform has to be earned. As a result, I started my training wearing tacky brown pants and sneakers. To make us look and feel even more unattractive, we were not allowed to walk whenever we had to go from one building to another. We had to jog and we had better not be observed touching any of the side walks while doing so either. Those were reserved for the more distinguishably dressed Mounties.
After a few months of sweat and toil, as well as numerous tongue lashings from those entrusted with making us respectable Mounties, most troops get to wear "their blues", which are the pants with the yellow stripe down the side of each leg. I admit that I was always proud to wear the uniform. Dressing in it made me feel different somehow. It is almost the same feeling as strapping on your helmet just before going onto the ice for a big game. The noise the helmet clasp makes and the sound my pistol made, as I secured it in its holster, both signified that I was ready for whatever lay ahead.
In my 21 year career, I probably only wore the actual uniform for a total of three or four years. I spent many years chasing drug dealers, which actually meant following them around secretly, as we waited to catch them red handed and make the big bust. Doing this while in uniform is possible, it is just that you'd never catch any of these wily bandits. The standard uniform of the narc is whatever everyone else happens to be wearing, necessitated by the fact that we need to blend in, not stand out. In my case, it was jeans and a t-shirt and that was fine with me. I never had the desire to own Gucci this or Gucci that. Thankfully, I am retired and don't have to investigate those many young kids who seem enamoured with the newer designer type drugs, such as ecstasy and methamphetamine. I'd have an extremely difficult time fitting into today's youth culture. I'd hate to have to try and put those large buttons in my earlobes. My genes are also against me, as my hairline no longer allows me to sport a Mohawk. What I have now-a-days is more like a natural reverse Mohawk. Perhaps in today's anything goes society, a plump, hairy eared, middle aged, jeans and t-shirt wearing undercover cop would still be effective. It's possible, but the brand of the jeans better be Guess and not Dickies from Walmart.
Sure, nice clothes say a lot about a person, but don't be fooled into thinking that you can tell everything you need to know about someone just by the materials hanging from their body. First and foremost, clothing has always been functional. They keep us warm, dry and protected from the sun. I doubt our cavemen ancestors cared if their fur underwear were from a sabre tooth tiger or a woolly mammoth, as long as it did what it was supposed to do. My attitude on clothes is fashioned after these cavemen. Like them, I have little idea about how to mix and match colours and styles. I have a wife for that and I believe that was probably the basis for the first union of man and woman. The females amongst us could no longer stand man's ineptitude for dressing themselves.
I doubt I will ever change. Yesterday, I attended a man's store because I'm starting a new office job on Monday. It seems that most of my older suits have shrunk while idling in my closet this last year or two. Who knew that inactivity could cause clothing to shrivel up! I purchased two suits, four shirts, and three ties in a total time of about eight minutes. I would have been out of there quicker, but the sales guy insisted that I actually try the stuff on. That visit confirmed that I am a fashion dinosaur. The sales guy gave me his business card (probably for when I need another suit in about ten years) and under his name was his title - Wardrobe Consultant. I can honestly admit that, before today, the word wardrobe was not in my vocabulary, nor of any of the guys that I know. The RCMP is a progressive organization, but I doubt I would have lasted even 21 days if, while in training, I had ever asked my thirty one male troop mates which wardrobe we would be wearing that day. It would have given a literal meaning to the expression "dressed to kill".
Friday, August 12, 2011
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
I'm All In
I went to the hospital today for an ultrasound. I look about 22 weeks along, but I can assure you that was not the reason for the test. I"ll be fine, but the visit made me realize a couple of things. One is that despite being so maligned in the media, our provincial health care system is full of good people doing a job that is often thankless.The second is that doctors, nurses and the various technicians must be amongst the world best poker players. During my lifetime, I have had numerous tests and examinations, but I have never been able to read the minds of these people as they have been poking and prodding me. Those people are way too professional to tip their hands. They are expressionless and stoic. It's what you want your health care person to be, but it's hard on the nerves. I have had myself killed off numerous times because I suspected the sudden silence of the health care practitioner meant they had found something seriously wrong. Surely the extra time that they are taking to look at this or listen to that must mean that I'm a goner? To date, I've never been right. Thankfully. I never want to sit across from one of these people during a game of cards.
I really enjoy a game of poker from time to time. I'm not very good though. My buddies often remind me of my first real exposure to the game. It happened as a 16 year old, while we were on a softball road trip to Corner Brook. I kept getting shelled out, but luckily mom was on the trip with us. I lost count how many times that one night that I said "Mom, I need more money." I told mom that we would be on the "halves", so she keep bankrolling me, two dollars at a time. I learned one very important lesson that night - poker is even more fun when you are not losing your own money. I'd like to think that I've paid mom back, but I don't specifically recall actually repaying her. If she can produce an I.O.U., then I'll have no choice but to fork out the dough, but until that happens, mom is out of luck. Even mom's need to be taught a life lesson from time to time.
The reason I like poker has more to do with the sheer enjoyment of being with friends and the camaraderie, than with the prospect of actually winning. I love to study people too. For the majority of us, our real personality reveals itself during a few hours of low stakes poker. Watching when someone folds em or holds em, as well as how they handle the inevitable banter and badgering, are how you get a good read on your playing mates. As kids, my brothers and I would play various card games with cousins, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and mom and dad. Many a wild game of Pass the Ace has been played in my family circle over the years.
I can recall my older brother, Gord, being described as a stingy card player by our elders. At the time, I wasn't one hundred percent sure what that meant, but it wasn't a handle that I wanted. It turn out that being stingy, just meant that he was a thinker and not reckless. These days, I know no one better than Gord at the game of poker. Younger brother Bill was a terrible card player. He was (and is still today) just too nice. You didn't have to win his match sticks because he would just give them to you if you asked. I shouldn't forget my older sister, Margaret Ann. She was the most devilish card player I ever saw. Perhaps it was a combination of a great memory and the ability to deal off the bottom of the deck that made her so formidable. We couldn't win against her. When match sticks turned into nickels, dimes, and quarters, we boys made sure that the rules included a "no girls allowed" clause. We got away with that only because Margaret Ann moved away from home to attend school in the US when she was 16 years old.
As for me.... well, I'd probably describe my poker playing as unpredictable. No one is going to read me because I can't even predict what I'm going to do next. I've certainly never been accused of having a poker face. Can you imagine if I had become a doctor? Because I can't do the stoic thing, I'd have to mix it up so that my patients wouldn't be able to figure me out. In poker, your opponents do this by recognizing your "tells", which are your behaviour cues that come consistently with whatever type of poker hand you have. In order to counter this if I were Dr. Jim, I would sometimes laugh whenever a guy dropped his pants for a testicular exam or I'd sometimes say "oh oh" during a prenatal ultrasound. On further reflection, there is probably a good reason why I'm not a medical professional. I'd probably be sued so often that I'd be as poor as a pauper. I guess, as I did when I was sixteen, I could always shout "Mom, I need more money." I'd better fold while I still can.
I really enjoy a game of poker from time to time. I'm not very good though. My buddies often remind me of my first real exposure to the game. It happened as a 16 year old, while we were on a softball road trip to Corner Brook. I kept getting shelled out, but luckily mom was on the trip with us. I lost count how many times that one night that I said "Mom, I need more money." I told mom that we would be on the "halves", so she keep bankrolling me, two dollars at a time. I learned one very important lesson that night - poker is even more fun when you are not losing your own money. I'd like to think that I've paid mom back, but I don't specifically recall actually repaying her. If she can produce an I.O.U., then I'll have no choice but to fork out the dough, but until that happens, mom is out of luck. Even mom's need to be taught a life lesson from time to time.
The reason I like poker has more to do with the sheer enjoyment of being with friends and the camaraderie, than with the prospect of actually winning. I love to study people too. For the majority of us, our real personality reveals itself during a few hours of low stakes poker. Watching when someone folds em or holds em, as well as how they handle the inevitable banter and badgering, are how you get a good read on your playing mates. As kids, my brothers and I would play various card games with cousins, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and mom and dad. Many a wild game of Pass the Ace has been played in my family circle over the years.
I can recall my older brother, Gord, being described as a stingy card player by our elders. At the time, I wasn't one hundred percent sure what that meant, but it wasn't a handle that I wanted. It turn out that being stingy, just meant that he was a thinker and not reckless. These days, I know no one better than Gord at the game of poker. Younger brother Bill was a terrible card player. He was (and is still today) just too nice. You didn't have to win his match sticks because he would just give them to you if you asked. I shouldn't forget my older sister, Margaret Ann. She was the most devilish card player I ever saw. Perhaps it was a combination of a great memory and the ability to deal off the bottom of the deck that made her so formidable. We couldn't win against her. When match sticks turned into nickels, dimes, and quarters, we boys made sure that the rules included a "no girls allowed" clause. We got away with that only because Margaret Ann moved away from home to attend school in the US when she was 16 years old.
As for me.... well, I'd probably describe my poker playing as unpredictable. No one is going to read me because I can't even predict what I'm going to do next. I've certainly never been accused of having a poker face. Can you imagine if I had become a doctor? Because I can't do the stoic thing, I'd have to mix it up so that my patients wouldn't be able to figure me out. In poker, your opponents do this by recognizing your "tells", which are your behaviour cues that come consistently with whatever type of poker hand you have. In order to counter this if I were Dr. Jim, I would sometimes laugh whenever a guy dropped his pants for a testicular exam or I'd sometimes say "oh oh" during a prenatal ultrasound. On further reflection, there is probably a good reason why I'm not a medical professional. I'd probably be sued so often that I'd be as poor as a pauper. I guess, as I did when I was sixteen, I could always shout "Mom, I need more money." I'd better fold while I still can.
Monday, August 08, 2011
I Hope I'm Full of Baloney
Upon rising from my slumber this morning, I was somewhat surprised to come face to face with the two teary eyed little girls. I immediately thought that perhaps they believed the apocalypse had cometh because this summer's ever present wind and rain had temporarily forsaken us. Kendall and Avery must have reasoned that this was "the calm before the storm" and that the life ending meteor, the final flood, or the fire that finishes us was imminent. I splashed some water on my face to give me a chance to rethink the situation and to try to come up with the fatherly thing to do. Upon reflection, I realized that my kids are fairly level headed and not usually prone to such outlandish thinking. It had to be something else.
A quick check of the Internet didn't provide the explanation that I was seeking. Miley Cyrus hadn't joined a cult (at least not yet), nor had Selena Gomez suffered a permanent case of laryngitis. None of the kids' icons were doing anything that would be considered abnormal for such Hollywood types. As a father of preteen girls, I resorted to the last course of action available to me - I asked them what was wrong.
It turns out that neither girl is too enamoured with the idea of going to swim camp this afternoon and for every afternoon this week. What's up with that? The girls love swimming and are even active members of a competitive swimming club from September to June. It's not like the swim camp was a surprise. We signed them up months ago. They even know some of the instructors and will probably see several of their swimming friends there too. So why the big alligator tears? Such emotions are alien to me. These girls are only 9 and 11 and there have been no signs of the "big change" that will eventually come to them, and indirectly, to me.
Kendall and Avery have enjoyed their time off from school, perhaps a little too much. Kendall can sleep like there's no tomorrow - late to settle each night and loves lounging until well into the morning. Avery has had more face time with the computer this summer than Charlie Sheen has had with his psychiatrist. If the on-line kids' game called Fantage ever goes public, I'd suggest buying a few hundred shares. It will put Microsoft to shame, as it is more addictive and I was even convinced to doll out some cash to the company so Avery could have an upgraded membership. Their mother and I have always tried hard to ensure the girls were adaptable and acceptable of change, but perhaps we've fallen short. I guess the kids were banking on living it up until they had to head back to school in the fall.
Lynda was gone to work while I was tackling this morning's emotional crisis, but thankfully, Grammie was able to lend a hand. Her specially prepared Bologna sandwich for Avery and a few words of encouragement to Kendall helped get the ship righted. I also had the perfect speech all prepared and practiced. One that would help Kendall and Avery see that the "doing" part of life is actually the best part. The motivation for my speech came from the fact that after being "retired" for a while, I'm heading back to work next week. I got a full time, but temporary position with the provincial government that will keep me out of trouble until next spring. Like the kids, my days of lounging and Googling will also be severely limited, so I understand their angst. I told the kids that how they are feeling now is exactly how I will feel next Monday when I have to go to a real office for the first time in a long time. Instead of feeling anxious, we should think of it as being an adventure and that we really are lucky to be able to go to a swim camp and to go to work for the provincial government.
What a load of baloney! The kids seem to have bought it though. They were both in good spirits when I finally dropped them off at the pool this afternoon. Well, at least they seem to have bought the part about being fortunate to be able to go swimming and playing with friends. I doubt they were too convinced about their dad being lucky because he gets to put on a suit and go into an office all day to work. Perhaps when next Monday rolls around I too may be shedding big tears. It is very likely that I will have some reluctance about going back to work. I'm hopeful that there may be a couple of fringe benefits that will make the transition easier: one is that the cafeteria at the Confederation Building serves Bologna sandwiches; the other is that my premium Fantage membership works on the government computers.
A quick check of the Internet didn't provide the explanation that I was seeking. Miley Cyrus hadn't joined a cult (at least not yet), nor had Selena Gomez suffered a permanent case of laryngitis. None of the kids' icons were doing anything that would be considered abnormal for such Hollywood types. As a father of preteen girls, I resorted to the last course of action available to me - I asked them what was wrong.
It turns out that neither girl is too enamoured with the idea of going to swim camp this afternoon and for every afternoon this week. What's up with that? The girls love swimming and are even active members of a competitive swimming club from September to June. It's not like the swim camp was a surprise. We signed them up months ago. They even know some of the instructors and will probably see several of their swimming friends there too. So why the big alligator tears? Such emotions are alien to me. These girls are only 9 and 11 and there have been no signs of the "big change" that will eventually come to them, and indirectly, to me.
Kendall and Avery have enjoyed their time off from school, perhaps a little too much. Kendall can sleep like there's no tomorrow - late to settle each night and loves lounging until well into the morning. Avery has had more face time with the computer this summer than Charlie Sheen has had with his psychiatrist. If the on-line kids' game called Fantage ever goes public, I'd suggest buying a few hundred shares. It will put Microsoft to shame, as it is more addictive and I was even convinced to doll out some cash to the company so Avery could have an upgraded membership. Their mother and I have always tried hard to ensure the girls were adaptable and acceptable of change, but perhaps we've fallen short. I guess the kids were banking on living it up until they had to head back to school in the fall.
Lynda was gone to work while I was tackling this morning's emotional crisis, but thankfully, Grammie was able to lend a hand. Her specially prepared Bologna sandwich for Avery and a few words of encouragement to Kendall helped get the ship righted. I also had the perfect speech all prepared and practiced. One that would help Kendall and Avery see that the "doing" part of life is actually the best part. The motivation for my speech came from the fact that after being "retired" for a while, I'm heading back to work next week. I got a full time, but temporary position with the provincial government that will keep me out of trouble until next spring. Like the kids, my days of lounging and Googling will also be severely limited, so I understand their angst. I told the kids that how they are feeling now is exactly how I will feel next Monday when I have to go to a real office for the first time in a long time. Instead of feeling anxious, we should think of it as being an adventure and that we really are lucky to be able to go to a swim camp and to go to work for the provincial government.
What a load of baloney! The kids seem to have bought it though. They were both in good spirits when I finally dropped them off at the pool this afternoon. Well, at least they seem to have bought the part about being fortunate to be able to go swimming and playing with friends. I doubt they were too convinced about their dad being lucky because he gets to put on a suit and go into an office all day to work. Perhaps when next Monday rolls around I too may be shedding big tears. It is very likely that I will have some reluctance about going back to work. I'm hopeful that there may be a couple of fringe benefits that will make the transition easier: one is that the cafeteria at the Confederation Building serves Bologna sandwiches; the other is that my premium Fantage membership works on the government computers.
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