Don't Bet On It

If you are lukewarm on something or teetering on the fence as to whether you give a hoot about how something will turn out, then I have just the prescription to ensure that you'll care a whole lot going forward.  It's quite simple actually.  All you have to do is place a bet on it.

I joined a football pool this year and I can't believe how much more interested I am in the games, or at least their outcomes.  I anted up a few bucks and that has made all of the difference.  It's not like there's a lot of money on the line, certainly no one is getting rich on the weekly prize.  The actual odds of winning any of the cash are so high that I probably shouldn't count on using that money to pay for fixing my brother's boat.  You may remember that I recently wrote about the vicious whale that attacked the boat and it was only through the courageous actions of her captain, yours truly, that  all hands were saved from a Titantic-like fate.  No? You don't remember?  OK, so it may not have happened actually like that.  Some of it is true though - I was using my brother's boat, it was on the mighty North Atlantic, and the rock that the propeller hit did very much resemble a whale.   It's funny that when I told my other brother, Gord, what I did to Bill's boat he said he wasn't surprised.  He told me that "they" had bets on when I was going to do something like that.  I wish he had told that to me earlier so I could have gotten in on the action.

It appears that my family has developed quite an interest in betting on what I'm going to do, or not do, next.  I guess it's a tribute to my somewhat erratic behaviour of late.  Lynda has even taken to calling me a ping-pong ball.  I prefer to consider myself as charmingly creative and imaginative.  The opportunities available to me seem endless.  I'm like a big kid in the candy store of life.

I wrote in my last story, which was four days ago, that I would not be a hockey coach this season.  Well, since hitting the publish button on that one I wasn't coaching, I was coaching, I wasn't coaching...and now.... I am coaching.  I also mentioned in that post that I am looking for a job and that I had "an iron in the fire".  I agree that I was somewhat wishy-washy on deciding whether or not to coach and that was for something I love doing.  So you can only imagine what's going through my head on whether or not to continue to pursue a part time position that pays just above the minimum wage.  Or can you?  If I'm a ping-pong ball then I'm the one being practiced with by the unconquerable Forest Gump in the movie of the same name.  Brother Bill told me this morning that he has a pool going on how long I will last in that job.  Geez!  I don't even have the job yet and already the vultures are swooping over my corpse.

I know how to turn the tables on my family of Doubting Thomases.  I will break open my piggy bank and bet it all on me staying in that job for the next ten years.  Surely the odds will be so against that happening that I'll make a fortune when the time comes to collect.  After all, as I wrote in the first paragraph, betting on something makes it more interesting.  Maybe that will be in my favour as I try to plug in ten years at something I just may not be too passionate about.  Hmmmm.....I wonder what odds Bill is giving on me not even taking the job?  That's where the smart money will be.

Lynda is not a fan of being a character in any of my stories.  As she is undeniably the most important influence in my life, it is hard not to include her in some fashion.  I would argue that most times she is responsible for getting herself included.  Her description of me as being a ping-pong ball was the inspiration for today's story.  To honour her, I will conclude with a few, very fitting, quotes from Forest Gump:

• "My momma always said, Life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get."
• "I don't know if we each have a destiny, or if we're all just floatin' around accidental-like on a breeze. But I, I think maybe it's both."
• "That's all I have to say about that."

Shooting the Breeze and Talking Turkey

I'm going to write today as if the words came from a shotgun.  There won't be one specific theme, but instead I'll throw a bunch of thoughts at the cyberspace wall and see if anything sticks.  I hope at least one of the attempts resonants with you.

As its Thanksgiving weekend, I'll first start out by wishing all of you health and happiness.  In a nutshell, if you really think of it, if you have those two simple things then what more can you ask for.  Perhaps there is one more thing - an extra helping of mom's gravy on Sunday when the Nixon and West clans sit down together to devour the turkey and fix-ins.  We'll remember my dad and Lynda's dad too.  Dad would have the plate so loaded that it required side boards and Ron would be reminded that gravy is not meant to be a beverage.  I am thankful for having such fond memories.

Minor hockey has begun another season and the next John Slaney or Daniel Cleary is waiting to be discovered in the frosty rinks of our province.  I'm not coaching this year, so it's been a strange fall season.  I did go to the rink this morning to watch some of the kids I coached last year as they played their first tournament of the season.  Hockey is unique in the passion it inspires.  The rink is a tin can but it is a shrine nonetheless.  It seemed that every player had an entourage.   In the congregation were parents, both sets of grandparents, copious uncles and aunts, and reluctant siblings.  At this time of year, as well as for kids who are at the age that most still sleep with blankies, hope abounds.  After a hour, I left the rink.  It was great to watch the kids work so hard and to compete.  I think I made the right choice not to coach hockey this year.  I'll use that extra time to volunteer at my daughter's swim club.  Pools tend to be a lot warmer than rinks and the expectations for the kids' success are more realistic.  I know that Kendall won't become a millionaire because she is a great breaststroker, but I've already booked plane tickets for the 2016 Olympics in Rio.

I admire so many people.  They are not celebrities or famous in any way.  These are people who take the crap that life throws at them and make the best of it.  Life is short.  We all have others depending, in one way or another, on us.  Those of you who tackle the untimely death of loved ones, ill health, difficult employment situations, job loss and so many other challenges, continue to fight the good fight.  Don't forget that those of us who know and care about you are not meant just to be spectators.

I'm back on the job hunt.  Being a dad, house husband, chauffeur for my children and children's friends, and a blogger are all great but the pay sucks!  Having kids is expensive, as is running your brother's boat aground.  I have an iron in the fire, so I'll let you know if and when it becomes a sure thing.  Lynda is on the proverbial fence about me working.  We've enjoyed a couple of years of me just being available to do all of the stuff that comes with having a home and a family.  I'm thinking of telling her that I'll give up the job search if she provides some thoughtful fringe benefits (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).  I'm pretty sure I know her reply will be along the lines of "So when do you start your new job."  I haven't told her yet that I'm not too hopeful on landing the job.  I've applied to be the captain of the Bell Island ferry.

It's time to head home.  I have to check on a leak that's coming from the main floor into the basement.  It's been going on for the last few days.  I left it as I kind of hoped that Lynda or mom would look after it, but no such luck.  I do laundry and the dishes and I'm still expected to fix stuff around the house.  My dad and father-in-law must be rolling in their graves.  Perhaps they have a point.  I think I'll have another coffee and read the paper.  After that I'll head home and beg Lynda to forgive me.  Just maybe I'll have to make it up to her by providing her with fringe benefits.  Now wouldn't that be a real nice "thanks giving".

Broken Dream

A few days ago, my wife, Lynda, informed me that I'm "half cracked".  Apparently she is not alone in her assertion, as she also told me that several other people agree with her. I was speechless....a rarity.

For those of you who may not be quite sure how someone comes to be labelled as "half cracked", let me explain.  I believe the term is unique to Newfoundland and it's synonymous with crazy, but in a nicer way.  If that's at all possible?  The context in which the term is used and the intonation the speaker utilizes when describing someone in such a manner is oh so important.  As a result, it is possible to be called "half cracked" and it is not meant in a derogatory sense.  Some of the funniest, most genuine and caring people I know certainly fall on the good side of being half cracked.  It's not unusual to hear the following: "Let's get together with Wayne and his wife this weekend.  They're a lot of fun and he's half cracked."  Or how about after an awesome Friday night on George Street - "Everyone was sure having a time.  They were all half cracked.  Want to go down town again tonight?" 

So being described as half cracked is not necessarily a bad thing.  I think that's how Lynda meant it when she said it to me last week.  I can see how I have earned the title over the years.  Perhaps the negative thing about being half cracked is that it's not possible to ever go back to being un-cracked.  Think of an egg.......makes sense I guess, as an egg with a broken shell can never be whole again. (As proven by all of the king's men.)  But if I take that thought process a little further, then is an egg really ever half cracked?  It's either cracked or it isn't.  Right?  It's the same as being pregnant......you're either pregnant or your not.

So that explains what transpired between Lynda and me yesterday.  No, Lynda is not pregnant and neither am I!  I came up with what I saw as a good idea and was gathering more information about it.  I must agree with Lynda that it is somewhat of a different idea.  Actually, the word she used was "extreme".  It turns out that not too many people have done it before.  I spoke to someone knowledgeable in the field and was told that she had not had anyone do what I was proposing in the 25 years she has been involved in this endeavour, even though it is quite possible to do it and it is actually a very good thing.  I'm not about to tell you what it was.  That's between Lynda and me.

As it turns out, the timing is probably not right for me to proceed with this idea.  Lynda is great at helping me see the big picture during those times when I am looking at things through a narrow tunnel.  I appreciate her counsel.  There was no need to consider the context or the intonation she used when she was telling me what she thought of my idea.  It was short, sweet and quite clear.  She said I was "cracked".  I think it sounded better when I was just "half cracked".