Do You Know Moammar Nixon?

These past few months have seen the dramatic rise of democratic forces in several Middle Eastern countries.  The citizens of Libya, Egypt and Syria have challenged the dictatorships that have ruled the political and social landscapes of these countries for decades.  Freedom of choice and the rights of the individual have proven to be more powerful than the weapons of the loyalist armies and more fluid than the oil that flows so freely from the sands of these lands.  No societal model is perfect, but one that discounts or marginalizes the populous is eventually doomed to failure.  Tyrants can no longer count on citizens being ignorant and uneducated about the goings on of the world at large.  Once a taste of freedom is savoured or even thought to be possible, people will choose the hard road every time in order to be able to sit at the table of democracy.

This serious, in tone, geopolitical preamble was necessary in order to bring me to the point of today's writing story.  I'm usually not so cryptic.  I think my 9 year old daughter may be an offspring of Moammar Khadafi, Hosni Muberek or Bashar al-Assad.  It's not that she has any of their physical features - thank god for that - nor does she resort to torture in order to get her way.  Well, not torture in the traditional sense.  Avery is able to push my buttons with merely a look.  As I peer into those wide, watery eyes, see the quivering lower lip and those way too adorable freckles, I'm left feeling like I deserve to spend the rest of my life getting stretched on the rack.  Surely, for this child to feel such woe, then I must have done something unthinkable.  The punishment must fit the crime.  Khadafi and company failed to understand this fundamental principle and their empires crumbled because of it.

Before I banished myself to the dungeon or to remedial classes for dissident dads, then I had to find out what wrong I had perpetrated on my youngest offspring.  If we do not take the time to understand the mistakes of our past, then we are bound to repeat them.  There will come a time when the shoe will be on the other foot and I'll need someone to change my diaper and to comfort me at night with a story.  I have but two children, so better not to alienate one of them so early in life, thereby greatly reducing my options for ageing gracefully and avoiding the old age home until I'm ready to go there.  I doubt that Khadafi had such foresight or perhaps with tyranny comes the illusion of divinity.  I am neither a tyrant nor divine, so keeping in the good books of my kids is my plan for ensuring bliss in my later years.

Avery told me that her angst was due to the fact that she does not like family meetings.  OMG, she really does have a predisposition towards tyranny!  A few months ago, I began to hold family meetings as I believed they were a great way for the kids to be included in the decision making process, for them to learn that their opinions matters and that it is important for them to speak their minds.  Was Avery against the idea of having a say in her future?  I was perplexed.  It turns out I didn't have to wait long to find out.  Yesterday, while Avery and I were struggling through grade 4 math homework (ok, I was the only one struggling), she blurted out that she no longer wanted to be involved in swim club and that she wanted to return to dance lessons.  This was all a surprise to me.  In fact, during one of our recent family meetings, the fall activity schedule was discussed at length with the kids and the decision was made to take a break from dance this year after seven years of ballet, tap and jazz.  I suggested to Avery that we wait for mom to get home and we could then have a family meeting to discuss this.  Immediately, the eyes watered, the lip quivered and the freckles freckled.  A soft, broken, little girl voice declared "I don't like family meetings, they make me upset."  I was back on the proverbial rack.  What have I done to my sweet child to make something that was meant to be so good, come across as so bad?  Time to re-evaluate.

I think I know what happened.  Sure, the intent of our family meetings is to let the kids have a say, but in reality, Lynda and I had already decided what activities the kids would be joining this fall.  As an example, we didn't want the kids to partake in dance any longer, so we weren't truly committed to listening to their suggestions.  We took them down a road that they didn't want to travel.  We muffled dissenting opinions. We ended our family meeting thinking that we had a consensus, but in reality, it was a consensus obtained fraudulently.  We didn't mean for it to be that way and it is only as I write this that I see and understand what may have happened.  It took a little while, but Avery figured it out.  She figured it out before I did and opened my eyes.  Even a nine year old knows when her freedom of expression has been suppressed.  I'm proud of her for standing up for herself and articulating what she wants for her life.  I said earlier that she may have some of the traits of a Middle Eastern dictator.  If she has any, then I know where she gets them.  Sometimes, her mother can be a real tyrant.  Just kidding Honey.... really.... Ok, I know the routine...I'll strap myself myself to the rack when I get home.

For Sale - One Worn Out Corpse

I'm afraid their may be something wrong with me and I'm really worried.  I think I may be a hypochondriac.

In all seriousness, I've seen more than my share of doctors in the last four or five years.  There's nothing majorly wrong with me, physically that is.  It just seems that one after another, and sometimes all together, parts of this middle-aged body have gone a little haywire.  I never considered myself an "um me" (as in "uuu me knee" or "uuu me head"), but maybe I need to re-evaluate that assertion.  Perhaps I'm getting soft or perhaps these ailments are a natural function of the life I have led.

I'm reminded of the question regarding the best way to leave this world.  The debate is whether it is better to die occupying a body that is in great shape because that person lived cautiously and safely or, when exhaling for the last time, should a person's body look more like mom's old Mazda Protege, with it's dents, cracks, and rusted out floor?  In answering this question, we all respond the same way.  We know that our bodies are no different than our houses, investments and the cash in our piggy banks.  It doesn't matter whether we believe we will be spending eternity among the clouds, sweating it out in Hades, or in the arms of a hundred virgins.  We can no more take our corpses with us to our final end than we can take our worldly treasures.  If we get to "old age", whatever that is, given that 80 is the new 50, then our soulless bodies are of little use to anyone.  A well preserved 100 year old body does not suddenly become valuable.  It is not an antique to be collected, polished and put on display, but rather one to be pitied for the life that was not lived to the fullest.

If any of you think that you have lived a rather sheltered existence up to now, it is not too late.  The best times of your life lay ahead of you.  This is not a recommendation to suddenly go off the deep end and to do something rash, like quit your job. Very few of us need to do anything radical to start down the path towards a better life.  Every journey begins with one small step.  Having balance in life is the key component.  A close friend of mine once put life in its true perspective and I have shared his words many times over the years.  He said "Jimmy, enjoy life because you are dead for a long time."

 I'm doing the best to heed my own advice.  I'm 46 years old, so that's probably the new 25.  If I'm really only 25, then I should probably get a nipple ring and a face tattoo.  If I don't make it to old age, then I'm going to make damn sure that no one will want any part of my body.  I may need it when I meet those 100 virgins. 

Having a Job is my Vice

An ex-coworker and friend of Lynda's is in town for a few days and staying at a hotel in downtown St. John's.  We used the excuse that it was a Tuesday night to ensure he wasn't trapped in his hotel room watching a Miami Vice marathon and having to endure the shouts and curses of the prostitutes peddling themselves.  The hooker and john show takes place every evening at a corner or two in the east end of our fair city.  To those of you with your heads in the sand, St. John's has it's vices too.

Off we went to a local pub, where we know that live music can be heard seven days a week.  There were just enough people in there to give the Water Street watering hole a nice vibe, but not too many that we couldn't get a decent table.  It turned out that a popular musician, who is also a friend of mine, plays there every Tuesday from 7 to 10 p.m.  A round of drinks arrived and we ordered the large plate of grub that has everything on it that one would expect from a Newfie-Irish pub.  Exactly what those things are is anyone's guess, as it all wears the same batter and gets bathed in the same hot oil.  Some good though!

With drinks in hand, Lynda took that moment to propose a toast - "To Jim and to his latest retirement."  Earlier that day, I tendered my resignation for the provincial government job that I held for four weeks and two days.  I didn't worry about giving the standard two weeks notice and I'm not sure if I was supposed to or not.  It would seem kind of bazaar to stick around for that long, given that I occupied a desk there for less than a calendar month.  I wonder if they'll pay me for the two weeks anyway in lieu of the notice?  I'll have to get the union rep to check that out.  I have to get something out of those union dues that I paid for the first time in my working life.

Lynda has actually been extremely understanding.  Not that she truly understands what goes through my head, but nonetheless, understanding in the way that I need her to be.  I'm now, once again, fully employed in a much more meaningful way.  I like having my old title back - dad, chauffeur, coach, chef, dog walker, and writer.  I'll stick with this job for a while.  I'll probably always be searching, looking for that career that epitomizes the statement "do what you love and love what you do".

My musician friend finishes for the evening and is probably heading home to his wife and young children.  Music was once his life, but I can tell that now it is more of a passion.  He plays not because he has to but because he wants to.  Having a passion, a zest for something in life, is really what it is all about.  I love witnessing that in people.

It's after 11 and we need to get home to our kids and let mom get to bed.  We drop our friend back at his hotel and we don't see too much Sodom and Gomorrah type activity on the Duckworth Street corners.  It's still early by the business hours of those people and it is a pretty nice September night by St. John's standards, so I have no doubt that program will rerun this night, as it has for generations.  We live in suburbia, so this type of entertainment is not available to us by merely looking out of our windows.  It's okay though because the boob tube will help me wind down from the excitement of my retirement party and from the lump in my stomach caused by the kitchen sink stuff I ate.  I can channel surf until I find detectives Crockett and Tubbs kicking bad guy butt in Miami.  I can be patient.  I have all night.... I'm retired, again.