Hook me up!

(reprint from the Trentonian 2007)

Staring right at me … all slick, sexy and powerful … lying on my desk and silently calling out for my attention … is my new guy … my Blackberry.

He’s smart, neatly organized, doesn’t complain about my driving and likes shopping. Trouble is, while he knows everything about me, I know absolutely nothing about him. Like what turns him on?

Hey, I’m not trying to talk dirty. I’m serious. He’s just lying there on the desk because I don’t know how to switch this ‘user friendly’ piece of techno-gadgetry on!

It sounds old fashioned and turn of the century (not the last ‘turn’, the one before) but I actually write notes down. I’m a pen and paper kind of girl. I have a purse busting with lists and scribbles. My old cell allowed me to make and receive phone calls. That was it. No camera. No Internet. No automatic car starter. It didn’t read my hydro meter. It was a phone that was a phone.

But my M-in-L said something to me that made sense (don’t tell her I said that). She fought her way through the agony of getting used to using an electronic day timer because she knew if she didn’t stay up to date with technology, she would be left behind. She was right (don’t tell her that either). It’s not like we’re heading back to the rotary dial. We’re going ‘wire-less’ not ‘wire-more’. I knew I needed to get with it!

Mickey D is Captain Technology and I told him I wanted to make the leap into holding the world quite literally in the palm of my hand. After he wiped the streaming tears of joy from his cheeks, we headed to the electronics superstore.

I’m positive I could hear his heart beating in his chest as we slowly perused the handheld all-in-one devices displayed on the Wall of Circuitry – certainly his eyes sparkled and his palms got sweaty.

He reached for the Blackberry and held it gingerly in his hand. I snatched up another unit I liked with a cool slide out keyboard. But I could tell instantly by the gasps, the shock and awe, from both Mickey D and the salesgirl, that I needed to return the ‘less than Blackberry’ to the shelf. Obviously, I was not taking the task of growing up and getting connected seriously enough. This was a commitment and I had to pull it together.

“Will you, Alison Davies, take this Blackberry to be your constant companion? Will you love and comfort him, honor and keep him, in low power and full battery health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him as long as you both shall live? And if you purchase the no-hassle extended factory warranty for only $99.00, any repair work will be covered free of charge for a period of 36 months as long as it’s not due to neglect or misuse.”

“I will”

“And the extended warranty?”

“Ah, sure, ‘I will’, to that, too.”

We traded in our children's University fund and walked down the aisle into the mall with ‘him’.

Sure there is a high rate of remorse – some people jump into handheld devices without thinking it through and soon they lose interest. But that’s not going to be me. This is different. I’m committed to making it work – for better or for worse.

I’m going to be one of those people that never leaves home without the old ball and chain, oops, sorry, Honey, I mean Blackberry.

There’s no talking turkey when you’re sawing logs

If you’re feeling a little touch of turkey-itis this week, don’t blame it all on the bird. Your fatigue has just as much to do with your Aunt Gertrude’s stuffing and your Uncle Marty’s glass raising cheers of thanks.

Everyone blames Tryptophan, the apparent sleep agent in turkey but I did a little carving out of the truth. The turkey is a wild and crazy friend enjoying a night out with pals - not a date boring you with his early memories of the farm.

Yes, your main course has Tryptophan and in the body, that produces niacin. Niacin jumps right in there and produces the oh-so-calming, nappy time serotonin. Mmmm, big breath now…in through your nose … out through your mouth. And while this serotonin is indeed a sleep regulator, there’s a problem (and it’s not as far a stretch as the snooze bar). For Tryptophan to be the main suspect in slowing you down, it needs to be taken on an empty stomach and most definitely without protein. Good job, my dear Watson. So Tommy the Protein-packed Turkey is not working alone. Let’s get back to the scene of the crime – the buffet line – and the stuffing. What do we really know about Aunt Estelle anyway?

We know she carted in the high on the carb-o-meter gizzard-packed stuffing. It’s these high carbs that make the pancreas secrete insulin (not often that I can fit the word secrete into a column). Boom! Insulin makes competing amino acids check out of the bloodstream and in to the muscle cells, leaving a high level of Tryptophan swimming in the blood which makes you feel a smidge sleepy. But the Tryp to Snoozeville isn’t over yet.

In docks the gravy boat and you stir in the very fats that slow down digestion. Your stomach sucks all the energy out of the rest your body to deal with what came down the oesophageal pike. So the captain, your brain, sends out a message to return to your seat and settle in for the journey.

Alcohol gets a big pat on the back for its contribution to the nap-needing, too. By dessert, Uncle Marty has expressed thanks by way of a toast to family, sunny days, the CBC, Don Cherry, Viagra and shelled peanuts. Booze is a depressant for the central nervous system.

And overeating. Is there a big enough plate in the Country to lay host to the Thanksgiving Day feast? We shove, squeeze, jam and hoist food into our mouths with one hand while we reach for another buttered roll with the other. In the mere presence of turkey, we become pigs. It’s a ‘he who eats the fastest, gets the most’ world.

As the meal comes to an end, with Uncle Marty sleeping with his hand still gripping the wine glass and Aunt Estelle reminiscing about her Grandma Trudy that passed down that stuffing recipe, we push back our chairs and decompress. This relaxation, after an action packed, family filled holiday, provides the slow down and stretch out that’s the final straw to break the groggy camels back. You’re too pooped to even think about the yummy leftovers.

You lean back on the couch and cover your mouth with your hand as you let out a big yawn (and then reach for a napkin because you find a little piece of pumpkin pie on your upper lip). Soon, you snuggle back in and realize what you’re really thankful for. You’re thankful you’ll wake up after your nap – Tommy the Turkey has sadly sung his last swan song.

Hope the holiday was lovely for you all. I’m thankful you keep reading so I can keep writing.

Fail to plan and plan to wail

Go inside any McDonalds and there is a huge, backlit sign showcasing their complete price list. You know what you are getting yourself into financially when you supersize the fries (not that I have ever done that).

Wanna buy a car? The sticker price is for the base model and if you want to heat up your buns, you’ll pay more for the built-in seat warmer.

Telling people what they are going to pay for something seems standard operating procedure in this ‘selling you stuff’ world.

With the exception of one industry: dental offices. They write their own rules.

“We’re going to do X-rays this visit.”

“Ah, okay”. No mention of what the additional cost is – you just nod in acceptance.

When a retail sales clerk says “This belt is a great accessory for those pants”, you can flip over the price tag in the change room and do the old “Nah, I have one just like it at home”.

Hard to fake with a ‘We have an X-ray machine in the basement but thanks”.

Now truth be told (not always a given in this column), while I’m busy booking my next blind purchase, I mean, dentist appointment, my bill gets magically sent to the insurance company for payment. We have a Dental Plan.

It would be way more fun to have a Disneyland Plan, or an Early Retirement Plan (I think the dentist has one of those) or a Barbie Dream Castle Floor Plan (I think the dentist has one of those, too). But it’s hard to pay for a Dental Plan AND have one of those plans.

I thought my parents had provided me with a lifelong dental plan: brush, floss, rinse, spit, don’t eat rocks and don’t crack-open beers with your molars (thanks for that tip, Grammy Davies).

Doesn’t that sound like a solid dental plan?

The paid-for plan includes metal probes, power tools, recliner chairs and deep scaling. There’s a hooked suction hose that is supposed to void your rivers of saliva but instead it vacuum seals itself to the inside of your cheek.

And the paid-for plan also includes the use of mad scientist torture devices like the Dr. Jekyll cold iron needle plunger. Yikes. Can we not make a pink one with a little portion of the plan premium going to breast cancer research? Why does it have to look so terrorizing? And what’s with creepy dentist holding it down low, rolling the chair a little closer, a little closer, and then BAM – in one swift move, he stabs the needle right into the roof of your mouth? My God – is there any part on your body that seems less interested in having a needle jammed into it than the cratered moon-like surface of the roof of your mouth? It’s like hardened rubber up there.

Within minutes of your roof-top injection, you find yourself numb from the temples down, your feet are elevated, your head is downhill, the blood is rushing to your ears, the light is in your eyes, there is a tray of metal instruments to your left, a masked assistant to your right, the suction hook latches onto your cheek and you think ‘Is this really the right Plan for me?”

Dogs chew Denta Stix. They’re laughing at us.



Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly for the Trentonian.

So that’s how the Duke got his swagger

Real life is so much funnier than fiction. We can get ourselves into such messes!

Family was here from out of town recently and I was talking with Duke. Duke is a formidable guy. Big, solid, as sweet as apple pie and like Superman - he’s stronger than a locomotive. He’s the kind of guy you want on your football team or in the anchor position during a tug o’ war match.

We were talking about a local restaurant he was heading to for dinner when he shared this belly buster with me.

Back in his home town, there is a place that serves an endless list of chicken wing flavours. One of the selections is so brutally hot, anyone ordering them is required to sign a waiver. Now, I’ve never missed a meal in my life but I’d think twice if I had to sign away my legal rights before ingesting something.

Well, eating these wings were a bucket list item for Duke so he signed away. Matter of fact, he was so confident in his superhero abilities to swallow fire that he didn’t even read that stinkin’ waiver before scribbling his Clark Kent on the bottom line.

Six wings arrived. Duke made his way through 3 of them. That’s 2 more than a mere mortal could have managed. They weren’t “Gee, I’m sweating” hot, they were “OMG, I’ve lost the sight in my right eye” hot.

Duke excused himself and headed to the washroom. He wasn’t sick; he just needed to move around a bit and take a moment. Remember, these things did come with a warning.

About 15 minutes after returning to the table, Duke started to feel the heat again – BAD. Not in his mouth or on his fingers, not in his stomach … lower, lower … not twisting in his intestines … lower, lower, lower ….apparently that well intentioned but unread waiver included a warning to thoroughly wash hands BEFORE going to the washroom – especially pertinent to you fella’s who need to steer the ship. Ahhhhhhh!

Duke had done what his mamma taught him: pee first then wash your hands - wrong order of events in this restaurant. Again, ahhhhhhh!

He’s burning. He turns to his lovely wife and shared the horror of what was happening to his privates. She, like any concerned wife finding themselves in this situation, laughed.

He wanted to go home. He needed to go home. But he couldn’t move. He was on fire. Our ‘faster than a speeding bullet’ man was buckled over and sizzling.

How far away is the local emergency department?

Is there a urologist in the house?

Smart Mrs. Duke said he better get back to that washroom and bust out the soap. He needed to stop this chemical spill if they were ever going to have a family of their own.

Duke staggered to the men’s room. Taking matters into his own hands, he unloaded the damaged goods into the sink and begin to save what he could. Lather, rinse, repeat. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Now what makes me laugh is imagining the other guys that went into that washroom who didn’t know about the waiver wings. Can’t you just picture their surprised faces when they walked in on some neat freak giving himself a sponge bath in the sink!

I’m happy to report that Duke is able to leap tall buildings in a single bound again. And that he barely screams out in his sleep anymore.

Confucius say “He who ignores fine print, soon finds himself sinking.”

Its time to abandon that fashion ship

How long have men been wearing Capri’s?

I’m at a big splash pad with my boys and watching a flock of dad’s chasing their kids around when I notice they are all making the same ¾ length-leg fashion faux pas.

Sorry, fella’s, but as far as I’m concerned, only women can pull off the ‘too long to be shorts, too short to be pants” look. What are you thinking?

And because the fountains are spewing water, the dad’s are all shirtless so plenty of tattoos are being flashed around. Chinese symbols, razor-edged bands, lions and tigers and bears, oh my.

Back in the day, tattoos were reserved for the ‘bad boys’. Now they are common fare for Chess Club Past Presidents and government tax accountants. Young, fresh-faced daddies are sporting the old snake and dagger on the bicep. What are you thinking?

When men starting wearing earrings in the 70’s, that fad moved to a trend quickly. And at this water park, you would be hard pressed to not see a guy splashing around with a hoop or a stud or …

Hey, wait just one second.

Capri’s, tattoos, earrings...OMG!

Now I know what you guys are thinking.

Shiver me Timbers – its Pirate fashion!

As if sensing I’d stumbled upon their walk the plank, I mean, walk the runway style attempt, every goateed face in the joint looked right in my direction.

(gasp) Goatees! Well, if that doesn’t confirm it, this will:

“When Johnny Depp grew out his thin moustache and goatee for his roll as the swashbuckling Pirate of the Caribbean, young men begin sporting his ‘styled pirate look’.” Says George Caroll, legendary hair stylist to the Stars. (http://www.georgecaroll.com/george.htm)

Oh, honestly guys, pirates?

Clearly, we’ve left them to their own fashion devices too long, Ladies. The warning signs were there. Remember when they attempted the sweater vest? That was a cry for help and we looked away and snickered rather than helping.

You know, hundreds of years ago, both men and women wore cravats – the early neck tie. But those women handed that piece of fashion over exclusively to their men. Some folk lore states that women had liked the idea of a piece of fabric being tied around their husband’s necks and tightened. Other records support the notion women felt men couldn’t really go wrong with such a simple garment. Who would have thought they’d figure out how to stuff batteries into it and make Rudolph’s nose flash for the holidays.

Well, it’s clearly time to help again. We must turn their pirate ship around.

I suggest we give them leg warmers. We’re not using them anymore and it might make them stop wearing socks with their sandals. If it’s a go, I’ll pick up some Captain Morgan’s and schedule the intervention.

Alison Davies writes More About Life weekly for the Trentonian. Continue to email her through her blog at www.alisondavies.ca

Monkey no see, Monkey no do

Summer makes being a bossy parent much harder. It’s just too easy for the kiddies to hide in plain sight.

"Drewpy, when we get home, I need you to …"

"Drew, I need you to ..."

"Drew, please stop, I need..."

"Drewpy, please…”

Submerge. Submerge. Under the water he disappears again.

My kids go all “Hunt for Red October” in my in-laws pool as soon as they hear the start of a sentence that sounds like I’m going to ask them to do something.

Sean Connery couldn’t track ‘em with sonar. They stay lurking beneath the surface figuring if they don’t hear the instructions, they can’t speak or acknowledge the instructions.

I bet the record holder for holding their breath underwater is some kid from a dairy farm whose mom was trying to get him out of the pool and into the field for cow patty clean-up.

There’s tons of sneaky, defiant, “huh, did you say something?” summer fun for kids.

In our house, it’s been so hot that they know when they ask to play video games down in our chilly basement, I’m very likely to say yes.

And they have realized that my yes not only gets them a mid-day video party, but it also provides a "Sorry, but we couldn't hear you" easy out when I'm on my third, high volume yell down the stairs looking for someone to walk the dog.

Summer was invented for kids who want to run away from home without actually leaving. They get all the benefits of a cushy life as they hoodwink their powers that be.

"I didn’t see you, Mom."

"You didn’t see me looking like a fool waving my arms wildly to signal I wanted you home to cut the grass?"

"Mom, I was on my bike at the other end of the street. You wanted me to get more exercise. I’m sorry."

Everything they say is so sugar-coated in innocence.

Winter doesn’t blow in with all the same built in ‘get out of jail’ free cards.

It even takes more time in winter to get suited up for the outdoors – plenty of time between snow pants and mittens to bark out a few “don’t forget to unload the dishwasher when you come back in” or “I want that homework done before dinner”.

In the summer, they are just a pair of flip-flops away from a great escape.

"Can someone help me carry up the laundry hampers? Hello? Guys, can someone..."

Scuffle scuffle scuffle schlink shlump schlink shlump shhhhwap schlink shlump BANG

"Was that the door? Is anybody up there? Hello? Hello? Where did everybody go?"

See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil. That’s the summer mantra for my three wise apes.











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You gotta know when to fold ‘em

Every once in a while, you hear about some famous person who never fly’s – they travel around by bus. It’s so not cool. Dolly Parton was recently showing off her bus on Oprah.

“Here’s my teeny tiny bathtub. Here’s my itty bitty TV screen.” But you were a big sensation, Dolly. Show us your private plane and ‘islands in the jet stream’.

She was very excited about one special feature on board: she can simply hit a button and a solid, flat panel will slide out from one wall and click into the opposite wall so she can separate one room from the next. Isn’t that a similar technology to ‘the door’?

Dolly – you’re known for your big hair, big lashes, and big sequins but now you’re big busted in your old-styled transportation.

Younger stars are bragging about hopping on shuttles to the moon and ‘here you come again’ rolling into Chicago in the Partridge Family tour bus.

Travel in 2010 style: Helium filled breast implants. Just politely pass a little gas whenever you need to float down to do a concert.

It would work for her because every aging country music singer loves their plastic surgery. Is their goal to slow down Father Time’s wrath or are they looking to be completely transported back to puberty?

Dolly brought her old pal Kenny Rogers with her to Oprah for a duet. Sheesh - that Kenny Rogers was the gambler alright when he went back for more nip / tuck. Is he getting his work done under the care of Oscar Goldman and the doctors at OSI – Office of Scientific Intelligence? That’s the place that made the promise to the Bionic Man Steve Austin, “We can rebuild you – we can make you better, stronger, faster”.

It’s very disconcerting to hear the voice of Kenny Rogers coming out of an apple face doll.

I hated Ruby for taking her love to town but Kenny, many spouses say “I don’t know you anymore” but Ruby could really make that statement.

“911? My name is Ruby. There is a strange pre-pubescent boy in my home. Yes, I can describe him. He has snow white hair, a snow white goatee, he’s coated in spray tan, his eyes are pulled so tight they are vertical and he keeps singing “Don’t fall in love with a dreamer” – no, Ma’m, he’s not a lawn gnome, he says he’s Kenny Rogers.”

When Kenny Rogers proposed to his wife, he said “I’m your knight in shining armour and I love you”. She said yes to the marriage proposal but did ask why he was wearing the shining armour.

“Oh, I just had 6 ribs removed to make myself look slimmer and this keeps the swelling down.”

Know when to walk away from self improvement and know when to run. Run, Kenny, Run!

Okay, okay, I’m done being mean spirited. I will always love you, Dolly and Kenny, truth be known, I wouldn’t mind borrowing that shining armour because I’m feeling about three times a lady and my control top super briefs just aren’t cutting it. Have you got Goldman’s number handy?