Normally when I sit down to write my weekly entry I have some unifying theory, or at least a semi-coherent idea of what I want to write when I sit down to my laptop. This week? Nope. I got nothing. Drawing a complete blank. Therefore I apologize in advance if there is no over-arcing theme to this weeks entry. I have decided to do a free form jazz thing and write a collection of random bits I’ve come up with lately but couldn’t really work into past entries or there wasn’t enough to the idea to make it into a whole entry, the “also rans” if you will. I really hate to see these bits go nowhere but thanks for coming out we just can’t use you right now kid, Sheila the receptionist will validate your parking. Think of these snippets as some mental housecleaning. Without further ado I present to you the “The Brown Ribbon for Participation Edition of Mitch Being Honest.”
The other day I was coming home from work and passed by a seniors centre. It was a hot day, nearing 30 degrees Celsius, for my american readers I think that works out to 174 degrees Fahrenheit if my math is correct. Normally I wouldn’t have thought twice to look twice at the seniors centre I pass on my way home, but for whatever reason my gaze wandered over to the group of seniors outside enjoying the sun. Of the group there were about five or six of the male seniors sitting on lawn chairs, sans shirts. At this point you’re probably thinking I’m going to go on some rant about being totally grossed out by the visual assault of octogenarian flesh I had to endure. Nope. First thought that occurs to me was “My god, I have the same physique of an eighty year old man…. and I’ve had the same physical shape since I was twelve years old it’s just gotten bigger and taller. It’s like peering into the past, present and the future at the same time.” My god I’ve become omniscient.
I was talking to my work buddy and we started talking about the soccer. I thought I caught World Cup fever but turns out that 7-11 burrito I had for lunch probably expired sometime during the Clinton administration. Remember when you were a kid and you played soccer? What was the best part? The soccer? The fun? The chance to play outside with all your neighbourhood buddies? Nope. It was the oranges and water at half time. I swear the only time I ever showed any hustle on the field was when the whistle blew for oranges and water at halftime. I don’t know why this was the only part of the game I could get fired up about. It probably had to do with the fact that as a kid and even now as an adult, I have an exceptionally low tolerance for heat and hence hate being outdoors, especially in summer. Then take into consideration I was a slightly overweight, flat footed, TV loving kid who hated running and being sweaty; at the ripe age of thirty two this pretty much hasn’t changed. Well, maybe slightly more body hair. You literally could not have picked a worse sport for me to play, thank you parents. I’m weighing this when I pick your retirement homes.
The worst was when you would rush of the field just itching to get your hands on that cold water and sweet juicy oranges but there was always that mom who would decide to go maverick and bring dry broccoli and carrot sticks… with no ranch dip. Even at the tender naive age of six you’d be thinking “What the hell is this? Where’s my damn oranges and water woman? Dry broccoli and carrot sticks? I’m out there on the field trying busting my butt to pretend like I’m enjoying this stupid hot sweaty sport, putting out just enough effort to keep my parents from breaking my raisin sized balls and this is what you bring? Fine, fine. Next shift I’m going to pretend my kick will miss the ball and nail your kid square in the tenders, bye bye grandkids.” You know what the best part is when you pull a bait and switch on a kid? The look they give you. The look is a mixture of “What the hell is this?” combined with that look you make when you can’t find that weird smell in your kitchen.
Really? Broccoli and carrot sticks? This was probably the same mom in the neighbourhood who gave out erasers and mini toothpaste tubes at halloween. What? Huh? Who me? I didn’t egg your house. What do you mean you know it was me? You know of only one native kid in our predominately all white neighbourhood? You saw a native kid egg your house? You know I’m native? Fine, you caught me, but I’m not sorry. Broccoli, carrot sticks, erasers and mini toothpaste; do you hate children or are you delusional? Wait don’t answer that. Let’s just say I made some mistakes and you made some mistakes, but the important thing to remember is I kicked your kid so hard in the nuts at the soccer game he threw up twice and will probably lose that testicle. Now we could go on all day about who did what to who, and who’s at fault really or we could just agree that next time you’re not going to try to be a hero and just bring us our damn oranges and water.
All right I lied I managed to find an overarching theme to todays entry. No need to thank me, I’m an idea man, it’s what I do.