How To Break a Canadian Man

It's 2017. I was just about in the best shape of my life, the day we headed for the airport. I work out. I have a physical "job," helping a friend renovate his house. (I had recently declared myself retired...never worked harder, or longer, or for less in my life.)

It's about 24 hours of travel from our home in Victoria, BC, Canada to our destination in Osaka, Japan. By the time we land in Osaka, my family (Noah 12, Hana 10, Junko stuck at "40-ish") looks ready for bed—hospital beds. 

The bruised bags under my wife's eyes are so large that they count as carry-on. She's smiling, but fifteen years into this marriage I know better than to ask how she's doing. Both of the kids  look like limp zombie noodles and are dragging their backpacks along the ground. Noah feels sick. He's so prone to motion sickness that I'm afraid to mention that the earth spins. Last trip, he threw up once each hour, then one final time on the doorstep of the hotel. This time, he managed to hold out until the wheels touched ground and bounced his lunch into a paper bag. All three of them look like prisoners of war who've gone three rounds with Mike Tyson.

I'm tired but not overly so, and feel justifiably proud of how well I've endured, but not too cocky. My wife is 12 years younger than me. By tomorrow morning she and the kids will have bounced back, ready for another round. I am the liability. I'm nearing sixty and even though I take care of myself so that I don't often get sick or injured, when I do, I don't bounce back so much as crawl.

The first eight days continue to go well for me. We are touring...walking a lot, every day. The kids get bored, tired and sore. Both of my wife's feet are covered in blisters, effectively crippling her by the end. But I am completely fine.

Then we move from a hotel to her family's home—from fast food to home cooking, from noisy Osaka streets to quiet rural lanes but, most significantly for me, from plush, foamy comfortable beds, to thin futons on hard tatami mats.

This is not my first trip to Japan and, when I was younger, I was surprised at how comfortable the futons were and wondered why we, in the West, choose to complicate the simple matter of lying down to the point of needing bed frames, boxsprings, sprung mattresses with foam toppers, and headboards.

That was then.

Now...

I awake from that first fitful night's sleep achy and hobbled, like a 90-year-old man. I have to spend ten minutes stretching under the covers to limber up in preparation for rising from the futon.

Overnight, the temperature has spiked from a tolerable 27ºC (81ºF) to over 30ºC (86ºF). And those last 3 degrees must be the hottest ones because suddenly my pores erupt like geysers. I take a cold shower which offers about ten minutes of relief before the sun kicks into high gear. By 9am, it's sweltering and so am I.

It's hotter inside the house than out, so I find a place in the shade and sit on a nice soft rock and read a book. From time to time I strut about with my arms stretched wide like the saviour I am not, in order to air my armpits. That night, I dream of snow cones and penguins.

Over the next few days, my body adjusts somewhat and I no longer find the futon uncomfortably hard. It's probably because I am now uncomfortably hot. Sleep rises to just below oxygen on my list of health priorities. Deny me a good night's rest and my condition collapses like a pyramid of cards. I am now the only one of us with bags under the eyes.

Three days later, the mercury plummets and it begins to rain. Like most Japanese houses, this one has no central heat. Ever practical, the Japanese prefer to heat their bodies, instead of the entire house. For this purpose, the living room has a table set into a sunken area under which is a nice warm space heater. From the edges of the table hangs a thick blanket (kotatsu) to retain the heat. Regular trips to this area become routine, topping up our heat reserves, like Roombas charging their batteries.

The two warmest places in the house are the kotasu and the heated toilet seat. But now I'm wearing long underwear, and sitting on the toilet is a comfort trade off.

Such cold weather so early in the year is unusual and so we are not truly prepared. We all have only one long-sleeved shirt and one pair of long pants which, as luck would have it, had just been washed the night before we woke up to rain. They are now hanging in our unheated bedroom, insulated from the outside cold and humidity by walls of paper, as are we.

Machine dryers are not common in Japan. Japanese houses are more cramped for space than American houses and, in the past, this was the main reason. But, these days, the dryer can be stacked or even built into the washer itself. Yet they are still not popular. Several years ago, a large Japanese manufacturer made a marketing push to sell clothes dryers. The push failed and now, it's even hard to find one in a store. I'm not entirely certain why, but I'd guess that it has something to do with the Japanese work ethic. No Japanese housewife wants to be accused of laziness, and one of the most visible signs that she's hardworking is loads of laundry out on the line, each day. If the lines stay clear, then the neighbours would know that she had a labour-saving device. Tongues might wag. Strengthening my case is the fact that where clothes dryers failed, dishwashers are selling well. A neighbour might see that you have one, but can't know whether or not you use it. 

As a practical matter, however, it would be a great benefit to be able to dry clothes during the rainy months of the year. Japanese houses aren't spacious to begin with, let alone when festooned with wet laundry. As well, I don't appreciate having my saggy underwear on display. Nor do I appreciate seeing my father-in-law's.

Until the weather turns, our attire will be the same indoors as out. Beneath my windbreaker, I am wearing three t-shirts and three pairs of socks. Additionally, my wife is bundled in an old down jacket of hers that she found in the storage room.

Two days after this, the sun comes out to play. We're all in our pyjamas for a morning, waiting for our clothes to dry on the line. By noon, we are fully and appropriately clothed for the first time in a week.

I'm still stiff and sore and so decide to take a nice long walk which, along with sleep, has always been a secret weapon to cure all that ails me. The added benefit of a walk is that none of my family members are interested in coming with me. It's a glorious three hours of quiet back-road exploration. I return home feeling renewed.

That night, all the muscles which I thought would be limber and relaxed start tightening. I am unable to find a comfortable sleeping position. After a couple of hours of tossing and turning and cursing the tiny wheat-filled pillow, my entire back seizes up. I decide it might be easier to sleep sitting up and wander the house looking for a comfy chair. 

Japan laughs.

This is a typical Japanese house. The only chairs are the stiff wooden ones at the dining room table. Other than that, I have my pick of places to sit on the floor. Sitting cross-legged on a floor, I have found, is not something you can adapt to in just a few weeks. It requires the lengthening of crotch tendons, strengthening of ancillary back muscles and, I theorize, you also have to somehow raise your blood pressure enough for blood to blast its way through between your own fat and a hard floor, and around the tight corners created at your joints when performing human origami. Typically, I sit at a Japanese table the way clothes tumble in dryers...constantly reconfiguring to take the strain off of muscles I never knew I had, and to let blood reenter my butt cheeks.

I slide my body under the kotastu. At least I'm in a sitting position without having to fold my legs and I'm warm. The room is small, so the walls are not far away. I could keep my legs under the blanket for warmth and slump against the closest wall. But it's a sliding wall/door, and largely made of paper. It rattles in its tracks like a tambourine, and if I put any real weight on it I'll likely fall right through. There are puffy seat cushions strewn about the room. I grab one and put it on the table as a pillow.

The last time I look at the wall clock it is 5:00am and miraculously, mercifully, after that somehow I fall asleep. I drift off wondering how many people have farted into that pillow.

There are currently nine of us crammed into this 1500 square foot abode and two of them are my nephews; young,  single men with active social lives. Two others are farmers who rise so early that they annoy roosters. Each day, quiet lasts only a few hours. The rest of the time the household creaks, bangs, and rattles with movement. I am awoken at 6:30am by the explosion of morning activity as everyone gets ready for school or work. They're all headed to the breakfast table. The nephews have snapped photos of me asleep in a puddle of my own drool to show their friends.

I try to lift my body from under the living room table and discover that beyond the cluster of aches and pains I went to sleep with, the heels of my feet are deeply bruised from the long walk. I grit my teeth and hobble to the bathroom.

The most positive thought I can generate is that there are few body parts left to fail.

I haven't had butter, cheese, or Tim Horton's in five weeks.

I am a broken Canadian man.

The Girl with the Hammer

The cliche is a boy with a hammer and a girl with a hairbrush.

In North America, it's the most commonly accepted social contract between a man and a woman. It has always seemed, to me, an unhealthy arrangement—an unsophisticated agreement drawn up by the most inexperienced, impetuous, and undisciplined people in our society: the young. 

Agreed to early on, it typically remains unquestioned long enough for us to build a little empire and breed, fulfilling Nature's imperative. Reduced to the essentials, it pits a woman's sexuality against a man's usefulness. One large problem with it is that it hobbles women, which in turn hobbles the men they marry.

I was thinking about this and how I might teach my son and daughter to avoid this trap. It is difficult for both.

Young men's egos are tied to their sexual urges, which are overpowering for a good portion of their lives. Men often confuse sex with love. In fact, I believe young men typically fall in love through sex. Hormones are involved and when they surge they override logic to a degree that is at once amazing and frightening. Logic does return, briefly, immediately after sex. I have no idea how I am going to get my son to see the difference between sex and love. It took me about 40 years to do that, myself. And, older and wiser though I may be, I am still vulnerable to misinterpreting my feelings. Most modern North American men have little trouble being intimate, but making love is an act that connects emotion to their day-to-day intimate behaviour. For men, it's a very powerful link in the intimacy bond.

Young women often abuse their sexual power over men, bartering their way to security through much effort expended on their youthful looks. The extra time and effort seem innocuous when one is young and life is relatively uncomplicated. But it's at least an extra hour of physical maintenance each day, and time spent monitoring trends and, of course, shopping. As well, women endure the pain and physical harm that many fashion trends inflict. And, it's a major distraction from more important matters. It all adds up. Throw in a job, a couple of kids, and the deleterious effects of aging, and the energy expended to maintain that youthful appearance spirals, becoming a confidence-sapping handicap that men don't share.

On top of the time wasted, of course, there is a deeper danger associated with being evaluated based on looks. It's a game that constantly chips away at self-esteem because, from the very start, there are always more youthfully beautiful people out there, and every day that goes by sees that number increase.

The upshot of all of this is that a woman ends up more dependent and with less power to maintain her lifestyle than a man. The flip side is that the man ends up with a pretty, but dependent, partner. It's punishment for both parties.

And a woman can't drop out of this system without facing consequences. Going "all natural" visibly identifies her as different. Society does not encourage "different," though it may tolerate it. In fact, "different" is the exact opposite of "Society." Women will have more trouble connecting with her, and men, most of whom have been programmed by society to be visually attracted to trend-driven models, will tend to pass her over. Of course, this is a generalization with a large number of exceptions, but still, it is true for the majority.

And though it may not be fair, it is the reality for the foreseeable future. As intelligent and progressive as modern young people are, they remain ruled by the same hormones which have conjured the same social pact since the beginning of time, when I was born.

If you accept this, as I do, then you will be concerned for your children, as I am.

My first big-picture realization regarding raising a daughter was that she would need a robust self-esteem to be able to resist the hobbling social pressure to base her worth on her looks.

I call her my "Do Girl" because when she was a toddler, she used to insist on doing everything herself. "I do, I do," was her favourite phrase.

My "Do Girl" in action at age 4, helping to stain her brother's treehouse.
(Note that her 6-year-old brother is nowhere to be found.)

...and at age 11, helping to stain our storage shed.
(Brother remains MIA.)

I am thankful that she's inherently built that way, but I still push her a bit because the only real way to gain self-esteem is to do things. It's a very positive cycle: the more you do, the more confident you are that you can do things and, consequently, the more you want to do. She emerged from the womb with an interest in fashion and style, but she is prone to being active and yet intellectual enough to question a lot of human behaviour that most of us take for granted, so I feel she is quite well insulated from the judgements and putdowns she will undoubtedly encounter.

My son likes his solitude and would prefer to spend time reading, playing video games or making YouTube videos. He is technically minded and always wants to understand how things work. My daughter is more social and needs less time alone. She doesn't care how things work but is keen to understand people. It's interesting because I notice that my daughter can be easily upset by the feelings or opinions of another person, whereas my son seems much less concerned with what others think but is more easily upset when a device doesn't work the way he expects. He has a thicker skin because, so far at least, machines are generally less malicious than people.

This is not inherently a boy/girl thing, but because society promotes a divide, almost every one of my male friends has become the in-house technician/mechanic for every modern convenience their family owns, regardless of their affinity for the job.

For me, there are days when it's overwhelming. I often arrive home after hours of solving problems at work to a list of devices that are offline, leaking or making a strange sound—all of which, apparently, is my responsibility. When you think of the number of machines attached to the average household—not to mention the structure itself—it's a staggering responsibility for a single person. It would be fairer if this could be shared.

And fairness is a big deal because letting your partner in a long-term relationship take on more than their fair share not only risks resentment but is also robbing you of power. The person who is actively doing a thing always has the greater influence over that situation. The person who contributes more is building more self-esteem and skills and, consequently, more personal value. It really doesn't matter whether we are talking about repairing the wi-fi, communicating effectively, or expressing love—the essential fact remains true—the more you do, the more power you gain as an individual.

Of course, there is rarely a perfect balance and it's difficult to establish the relative values of each contribution, but if the imbalance is too great, it can create a "winner" and a "loser" which is not healthy for any relationship.

I am witnessing my 13-year-old son step into the role already. If I am not available, both my wife and daughter instantly turn to him to solve issues with the TV, wi-fi, or computers.

It made me realize that there is a small way to help a daughter retain more power throughout her life: Teach her the value of understanding how things work. In fact, knowing how a device works is a responsibility that comes with ownership.

It's little different than owning a pet. You shouldn't be expected to perform surgery on your pet, but you should know how to feed and care for it. Our responsibility in owning machines is not to a single living organism—it's to the Earth that we pillaged to create these modern conveniences. We owe it to the Earth to use our machines responsibly, in order to make them last longer. If we each take the time to understand how to properly use and maintain every device we own, there would be three large benefits that would come from this...

1) We would be more hesitant to purchase, electing to own less because there is a limit to how much time one person can spend on each device. (Reduce)

2) The devices we own would generate less frustration, work better and last longer. (Reuse)

3 And, we would be less dependent on others, which is essentially saying we would be more powerful individuals.

My daughter does not need to know how to solder circuits and repair her TV. Acquiring knowledge to that level would be making a career of it. But she should understand the general concepts involved and be able to find answers in the user manual. She should understand the relationship between her TV and everything connected to it, know most of the TV's features, and be able to troubleshoot common issues. This would put her on par with the average man and, thus, she would be less dependent on one.

If she owns a car, she needs to understand the basic theory of how an internal combustion engine works, be sensitive to the state of the vehicle and she should be able to refill the fluids, know when to get an oil change, and how to change the lightbulbs and fuses. Otherwise, owning a car is just reinforcing an illusion of a degree of control over her life that she really does not have. The first time her car stops working, she will be at the mercy of the person she takes it to and indebted to him/her, either financially as with a mechanic, or sexually as with a boyfriend/girlfriend.

For my son's part, I am trying to teach him to evaluate a person by their character. Beyond that, once he's involved, I advise him to teach his partner how things work. We'll start with his sister because I'm pretty sure that it's too late for his Mom. It will be a frustrating and inefficient process at first, but the benefits will accrue.

If we all start treating our machines as we would a pet, we can become better people who create happier unions... and, perhaps, avoid an AI apocalypse.

______________________________________
Liked what you read?

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The Space Between Thought: A novel of love, life, death, tea, and time travel.

Simon Sykes has money and power. He has Celeste, a beautiful, talented, and devoted girlfriend. And secretly, he has his pick of other women on the side. But Celeste’s sudden death deals him a staggering blow. It looks like suicide, but only Simon saw the ghostly figure at the scene of the crime. Plagued by grief and guilt, he vows to uncover the truth at any cost. While his business languishes and friends grow concerned for his sanity, Simon stumbles upon a secret that promises the power to unravel the mystery and undo one life-altering moment, to save Celeste and restore his future—time travel.

Meanwhile, Simon's suspicious behaviour has renewed police interest. As the authorities close in, Simon wrestles with time, space, and reality to rescue the love of his life, unmask her true killer, and remodel his world.

I Married Japan: The hilarious journey of Japan into one man’s life

Think you just married an exotic Japanese woman? Wrong!  In fact, you just married all of exotic Japan and 3000 years of history. But, the die is cast, the adventure’s begun, and the wonders and wondering will never cease. Throw in a couple of kids and a quirky Canadian family filled with characters, and you have the makings of epic tragedy, or gut-busting comedy, depending upon your point of view.

Get ready to learn, and be prepared to laugh your way through this collection of Japan-related articles on family life with the Deans!

The Book of 5 Uncredible Short Stories from the distorted mind of William M. Dean

If, all of your life, you have been desperately seeking a book filled with aliens, maniacal sheep, cupids and other mythical creatures—then your life is sad and you are misguided, to say the least. However, luck is with you and within these pages, you will find far-fetched stories from far-flung realities, told with exaggeration that amplifies truths, and adjectives that modify nouns. This is a work of fiction and has been scrupulously edited to exclude all fact so as not to distract you from all those aliens, maniacal sheep, cupids and postal workers you were looking for. For the rest of you, there is at least one stunningly good-looking woman and some cute cats.

Why Having Friends is Essential to Your Relationship

   As a person existing among humans, it is important to me that YOU have a close friend. If you are a monk, living alone in a cave, you may not need one. But, otherwise, close friends play an essential role in maintaining your mental health from which stems your happiness, from which stems my willingness to exist next to you. And, if you are in a long-term relationship with me, then having your own set of close friends is essential. Here is why...

We are all social:

   If you participate in society in any way, then you are, by definition, part of it. You benefit from it by having such things as sewers, electricity, medical insurance, and law and order. No single person who relies on these benefits can say that most of what they have is a result of their own efforts. Your standard of living is a result of the effort of a large group, over aeons of time. To arrive at your lofty station in life, you had the initial advantage of starting at the top of a long ladder that was built before you were born.
   A byproduct of being a part of a society is the emotionally supportive network of friendship, commonly referred to as a social network. Friendship is a system of emotional and sometimes physical support that covers areas not addressed by the social system; things like personal tragedies, or property losses not covered by insurance.
   But, for a social system to work everyone has to contribute.
   In the official safety net system, you contribute money (in the form of fees and taxes) and time (voting, public service) to keep it all working smoothly. It is in your best interests that the system continues to function. Most people recognize this. However, some fail to see that the ancillary network of friendship needs maintenance, as well. In this secondary social system, if you don't contribute then you don't benefit. This will become apparent whenever you have a personal loss not covered by the system like the failure of a marriage or the unexpected loss of a job. Such transitions can be a crushing blow to self-esteem and ego and coping can be an overwhelming task. The weight of such burdens on the psyche is dangerously high and it's more easily and gracefully handled with the support of others. As well, finding a new partner or job typically relies on your personal connections.
   Few strangers who are active participants in the social network will have much empathy for the plight of an antisocial loner. Few would go out of their way to help or support such a person, especially if they are competing against another who is actively social. If you are emotionally removed from all of society, then this can be frustrating on many levels and it is easy to feel isolated (which you are) and from there to fall into depression and anger.
   Flipping this argument over, in the most extreme cases, your personal safety may be dependent on knowing and emotionally supporting your neighbour. It is often those who have no emotional support or ties to the social network who eventually vent their unhappiness in violent ways.

Friendship is essential for long-term relationships:
   If you are in a longterm relationship then having close friends is essential. Perhaps you are not a social person and don't see the need to socialize. Well, guess what: firstly, you receive benefits from a larger society and therefore, like it or not, you are part of it. Secondly, if you are in a committed relationship, then you just signed up for a lifetime of very intimate socializing. At the very least, as a favour to your spouse (and/or children), you need to get an honest outside perspective, from time to time. As well, though philosophically I am opposed to comparing oneself to others, it helps to have a peek into other relationships to get new ideas about handling conflict and unmet expectations. And, though I’m ashamed to admit it, my baser self often derives satisfaction from discovering that I have it better than others.
   Since you have committed to a longterm relationship, you have committed to a long-term friendship. Successes and failures with your shorter-term friends will teach you how to become a better friend to your spouse. There is no safer way to learn. If your only honest relationship is with your spouse, then you are running social experiments on your own life. It's like a scientist experimenting on himself. Failure can be fatal.
   The corollary to this is that if you meet someone who has no close friends, entering into a long-term relationship with that person is a risk to your own long-term happiness.

Perspective is essential to happiness:
   A close friend will help you maintain a healthy perspective by playing devil's advocate and pointing out flaws in your point of view. Without ever hearing counter-arguments, it is easy to believe that you have factored in all the possibilities and come to the only logical conclusion and that you are, therefore, entirely correct. If you have no close friends, then you may easily come to the conclusion that you are always correct. From an outsider's point of view, you will seem unapproachable, harsh and inflexible. In truth, you are close-minded.
   It has been studied and determined that people who are incompetent are unable to gauge their own competence and are, therefore, blind to it. If you believe this for people less competent than yourself, then, logically, it should apply to yourself as well, when you are viewed by someone more competent. Every one of us has areas of talent and skill as well as gaps in our gifts and experience. Therefore, every one of us in incompetent in some area or at some level.
   A close friend will help you recognize your limits. Knowing this will save you from overestimating your own abilities which will help you steer clear of failure and embarrassment.

Family is ineligible:
   It is important that your intimate friend not be a member of your family because that connection is too close and too permanent. Because a family member cannot easily be disconnected from the rest of your family (which is a social network that, for better or worse, you are stuck with) things you confide, if leaked, will haunt you forever. The risk for you may be too high to be truly honest with that person. Conversely, a family member may feel that the price of telling you the truth as they see it may be too high because they risk you disliking them forever. Additionally, keeping the secrets you share may put family members in the uncomfortable position of lying to other family members. And, finally, because they are permanent fixtures in your life, they are not easily lost to you and so, do not have as much to teach you about maintaining a friendship.
   For a variety of reasons, few friends remain close forever and, in some ways, it is this very transience that makes them valuable. Because the relationship is trust-based yet fragile, a close friend must be honest and yet they must also be understanding and encouraging; tactful enough to slide harsh truths into a conversation without activating our natural emotional defences, like denial.
   I am relatively unsocial and do not have a large social network, beyond my family, which is often overwhelming. But I have always had one or two close personal friends. We exchange services. I listen to them and do my best to give back non-judgemental encouraging or insightful feedback and they do the same for me. Because they have a little distance from my most personal concerns, I can trust that they have no agenda beyond helping me and are able to see my situation in ways that I can not. They are not directly impacted by my behaviour, so they are not desperate to make their point and can nudge, rather than shove, me in the right direction, allowing me the time stumble on the obvious truth on my own, thus circumventing my own denial. Family members usually do not feel that they can afford to be so patient because behaviour they view as negative affects them every day. Further, they live in fear that you may never understand what they are saying and that they will have to live with your attitude or actions forever. Many domestic disputes are more about the future than the moment and this is why they get so emotional, so quickly. Most of us can endure greedy/illogical/ignorant behaviour for a moment, but the threat inherent in a long-term relationship is enduring it forever.

But wait, there's more...

   Beyond all of this, there is a sheer visceral pleasure in sharing alternate ideas, confessing anxieties, unburdening guilts, and even gossiping in emotional safety, with a like-minded individual.

   How you find such a friend, I can not say. Mine have always been unexpected gifts. Maybe the only secret is to wait and to be open to the idea. The only thing I can say is that they will be of your "tribe." This means that they will share one of your passions. I have two close friends, at the moment. Reducing it to simplest terms: one shares my passion for understanding people, the other shares my passion for writing. These are not the only subjects upon which we connect, but they were the core of the foundation upon which we built trust, from which was spawned a close friendship.
   Above all, a close friend helps you maintain perspective; to know your position in the world. It is both empowering and humbling, and perhaps, the largest key to sanity and happiness.


Clipnotes:

____________________________________
Liked what you read?

Here's more from William M. Dean...

WMDbooks.com

Slices of Laugh: Humorist William M. Dean has been compared to Mark Twain and Dave Barry, in gender. Here are 34 hilarious anecdotes and articles offering his unique perspective on far-flung subjects ranging from life, family, parenting, sex, intimacy, arguments, stealing your neighbor’s water, Japan, clothes dryer repair, violence, drugs, pets, sex again, aging, writing, couponing, Disneyland, scouting, dining with the Queen of England, and more.

     A refreshingly wholesome, uplifting read, perfect for when you’re waiting for your nails to dry, your server to stop texting, your doctor to retrieve an implement, your lover to finish, or to hide behind while following a suspect in a busy terminal. Lots of chuckles, keen observations, pearls of wisdom and nearly 100 funny pictures.

The Space Between Thought: A novel of love, life, death, tea, and time travel.

Simon Sykes has money and power. He has Celeste, a beautiful, talented, and devoted girlfriend. And secretly, he has his pick of other women on the side. But Celeste’s sudden death deals him a staggering blow. It looks like suicide, but only Simon saw the ghostly figure at the scene of the crime. Plagued by grief and guilt, he vows to uncover the truth at any cost. While his business languishes and friends grow concerned for his sanity, Simon stumbles upon a secret that promises the power to unravel the mystery and undo one life-altering moment, to save Celeste and restore his future—time travel.

Meanwhile, Simon's suspicious behavior has renewed police interest. As the authorities close in, Simon wrestles with time, space, and reality to rescue the love of his life, unmask her true killer, and remodel his world.

I Married Japan: The hilarious journey of Japan into one man’s life

Think you just married an exotic Japanese woman? Wrong!  In fact, you just married all of exotic Japan and 3000 years of history. But, the die is cast, the adventure’s begun, and the wonders and wondering will never cease.Throw in a couple of kids and a quirky Canadian family filled with characters, and you have the makings of epic tragedy, or gut-busting comedy, depending upon your point of view.

Get ready to learn, and be prepared to laugh your way through this collection of Japan-related articles on family life with the Deans!

The Book of 5 Uncredible Short Stories from the distorted mind of William M. Dean

If, all of your life, you have been desperately seeking a book filled with aliens, maniacal sheep, cupids and other mythical creatures—then your life is sad and you are misguided, to say the least. However, luck is with you and within these pages, you will find far-fetched stories from far-flung realities, told with exaggeration that amplifies truths, and adjectives that modify nouns. This is a work of fiction and has been scrupulously edited to exclude all fact so as not to distract you from all those aliens, maniacal sheep, cupids and postal workers you were looking for. For the rest of you, there is at least one stunningly good-looking woman and some cute cats.

Kidney Stoned

It's 4 AM. I'm on all fours dry-wretching into the toilet, praying to gods I've only heard of in Disney movies. I'm giving birth to a kidney stone.

Of course, I don't know this. I think that I am probably dying, but I want to do it quietly because tomorrow is my daughter's tenth birthday party and my wife has worked very hard all week to bring it together, including redecorating the house and backyard, and a cake with whipped cream, mango and marshmallow decorations custom made to look like exotic flowers. She baked two trial cakes, earlier this week, and the backyard is full of contests and games to rival the summer Olympics. There's even a  small podium. I'm worried that she's fantasizing about our daughter's wedding day.

Test cake #2

Everyone needs their sleep. I'll cope.

Finally, at about 5am, I take a couple of Tylenol. Normally, I resist doing this, because I don't want to mask any important symptoms. But, at this point, all I can think is "Mask the symptoms! Mask the symptoms, quickly!"

I manage a fitful sleep and am awoken at 7 by my excited daughter who instantly notes the deep circles under my eyes and that I am shaking, pale and clammy and asks, worriedly, "Even if you're sick, I still get to have my birthday party, right?"

I answer, "Of course, baby." and am filled with warm fuzzies as she dances up and down, clapping her hands and laughing. Then she says, "And dad..."

"Yes, darling."

"Please don't embarrass me by having a seizure or something in front of my friends."

"I won't, my angel."

Shortly afterward, my wife arises. The pills have already worn off and the pain is back, full force. I put on my most Clint Eastwood face and declare that I will power through, but she insists we head to the hospital, as I was hoping she would. If we are lucky, we can be home well before the party starts.

We are lucky.

It's not a busy day in the ER, but waiting with us are a number of people who make me feel very lucky that, though I may be dying, I am doing it slowly and with a small degree of dignity.

A woman is brought in, in a wheelchair. She has a huge gash across her face and a black eye. She is pretty—if you discount the injuries—well dressed, and looks intelligent and sophisticated. She's quietly sniffing back the blood leaking from her nose and holding an ice pack against a swollen cheek even as her husband, the one who apparently inflicted the damage, loudly berates the staff for not attending to her fast enough. Eventually, he is removed by security. After that, she seems to relax a bit and tries to make small talk with me in an effort to distract me from my pain. Her situation seems completely incongruous, but she's obviously been here before and is inured to her own suffering and humiliation.

Now, I feel like a three-year-old complaining about hurt feelings.

I feel guilty when I am taken for a CAT scan ahead of her. Twenty minutes after my scan a young intern comes to tell me that I do, indeed, have a kidney stone. They can see from the CAT that it has almost passed. I deduce, from the pain, that it's the size of a tennis ball but he corrects me, saying that it's about .1cm across—so small that they missed it the first time they examined the scans. He says it should pass naturally, without any issues. He's seen people pass 2cm stones! What the hell-on-earth kind of people are these? I'd need an epidural for that! And afterward, I'd want a birth certificate.

A pretty nurse escorts me out of the ward and hands me a small envelope containing four Tylenol 3's which she says I can use if I am unable to handle the last few minutes of the pain. I want to play it cool and refuse them, but instead, I grab them out of her hand and rip open the package to make sure there are at least four, as she promised. I resist the urge to ask for more, maintaining some semblance of pride.  She smiles, patronizingly, and I hobble away, leaning heavily against my five-foot-two inch, 98-pound wife.

Halfway home, the pain vanishes.

My girl-child celebrates her tenth year without further incident and I am filled with thankfulness and appreciation: Surrounded by family, the sound of my beautiful daughter's laughter, the shining sun, the six surviving flowers in my garden and the two hundred dandelions in my lawn that are all blooming, the fresh air, and the fact that I am breathing it.

After saying goodbye to eight perpetually chatty and giggly preteens, I sit in the silence with a cup of tea, a good book close at hand, appreciating the lack of chaos and ruminating on the contrasts of the last 24 hours; the brush with mortality so close before a celebration of life.

As I open my book, I feel lucky to have survived. And, I feel a certain invulnerability, having just cheated death—or at least the feeling of death. I now understand true pain, and, in the process, have surely become inured to agony... or, at least, 16 hours of it. I briefly consider a career as a spy. From here on out, I will no longer be impressed by the mundane bumps and scrapes of everyday life...

"Argh! Papercut! Ssssssss. Ouch!"

"Honey, where do we keep the bandaids? And where did you put those Tylenol 3's?"

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A Writer-Parent Dilemma: The Notebook

    

     Like many writers, I have a little notebook that I carry with me almost everywhere I go. It’s my "Inspiration Book" and I keep close tabs on it because if I lost it, I would be devastated by the thought that some “genius” idea may have been forever lost.

     But, if it were ever found I’d be equally devastated because it contains my name and phone number, and whoever returned it to me would probably have read a hundred half-formed, outlandish thoughts, feeble attempts at song lyrics, plot and character ideas, “sure-fire million dollar inventions” and strange little non sequiturs that inexplicably inspired me. In fact, I might be too embarrassed to ever claim it. 

     If I did claim it, I would certainly avoid eye contact. 

     As I use or reject the ideas, I pull out the pages until the book is empty. I’ve maintained a book like this for several years and never lost one. But, one particularly busy day, the current version went missing. 

     I told no one, sweated silently and tossed in my sleep, but I was confident that it had not gone too far, as my fear of embarrassment keeps me vigilant.

    Today, I found it. It was on the hallway bookshelf, under a pile of the kids’ library books.

     I guess that I was not the first to find it. 

     I just spent twenty minutes culling artwork from random pages. (Though I did leave the ones that said: “I Love You, Daddy.”)

     I hate the way the kids waste pages with random doodles and scribbles, but I’m too embarrassed to chastise them, in case they've read it.

     It's going to be a bit awkward avoiding eye contact with my children until I die.

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Daddy-style Fairy Tales: Little Peter's Christmas Miracle

My kids are 10 and 12 and love to hear my fairy tales which I tell while tucking them into bed. Ok, "love to hear" may be less accurate than "willing to endure," but I'm not one to split hairs. If I interrupted their play-filled day to tell them the same story, they'd no doubt consider it child abuse. But, at bedtime, they'd listen to me recite my tax returns if it bought them an extra ten minutes with the lights on. As they say, "timing is everything."

     Still, I enjoy watching their little faces while I'm reading. They're so cute when they grimace and roll their eyes, and I challenge myself to see how many times I can make them groan.

     After hearing this one, my son groaned (yes!) and commented, "Well, that was a huge waste of valuable sleeping time," but his face flickered with a smile he fought to contain.

     Huzzah!

     If you have little children who enjoy rolling their eyes and groaning, or who, perhaps, are willing to do so in exchange for an extra ten minutes at bedtime, then sit them down and recount this short tale of Christmas magic...




Little Peter's Christmas Miracle 

      Once upon a time, in a land far from those who lived close by, a very old man lived all alone in a cottage in the forest, at the edge of a small village. He had never married and had no children and was known to be sad and lonely. He was also crotchedy—probably because he was sad and lonely, but, perhaps, because of anal fissures. No one could be sure.

     Every day, he would venture out from his little house and slowly, very slowly, make his way into town to buy groceries, after which he would trundle, slowly, very slowly, to the park and sit on a bench and feed the birds while listening to the children frolicking, close by.

     Peter was the littlest of all the boys his age, but he had the biggest heart and also anime eyes, which were really cute, but totally distracting. These are the kind of congenital mishaps that occur, sometimes, in small villages, if cousins marry. Little Peter noticed the old man and came to sit beside him on the park bench.

     "My name's Peter," he said, which was not obvious, yet very true, and a perfectly good way to introduce yourself, if your name happens to be Peter.

     The old man did not look at little Peter, or acknowledge him in any way, except to say, "Too much information. What do you want?"

     "I just want everyone in the who-o-ole world to feel love and to be happy," replied little Peter, flashing a Cheshire smile and his anime eyes, which, of all of his features were two of the safest ones to flash.

     The old man took no notice, which surprised little Peter because everyone was always impressed by this anime eyes—especially when he added his Cheshire smile.

     In his most crotchety voice, the old man began, "Kid, I just want to feed the birds..."

     "That's really nice!" interrupted Peter, enthusiastically.

     "... to my cat!" finished the old man. And with that, he suddenly grabbed one of the little birds by its throat and shoved it into a small cloth bag. For someone who was slow, very slow, on his feet, he was fast, very fast, with his hands.

     "Ohhh!" exclaimed little Peter.

     The old man tied closed the rustling, squeaking bag, crotchety-pleased to have shocked little Peter.

     "You can't do that!" exclaimed Peter.

     "Ha! I just did."

     "But that's a Christmas Dove and it's only three days until Christmas!"

     "Sounds delicious!" grunted the old man, rising from the bench.

     "Wait 'til Santa finds out!" warned little Peter.

     The man hesitated. "You believe in Santa?"

     "Of course!" said little Peter.

     "Well, I'm really old and I've never seen him! Christmas means nothing to me."

     Little Peter was shocked that someone would ever say such a thing and his hands flew to his mouth, his grin collapsing into the shape of a something circular. But then, at that very moment, his glistening anime eyes caught those of the old man and in them, he glimpsed a hundred years of hurt and disappointment. In his heart, he instantly felt the old man's pain and anguish. In his stomach, he felt a bit hungry; his butt was tingling slightly, as well, but such details were not relevant and so, never became part of this story.

     As the old man ambled away, slowly, very slowly, the small sack squealing and fluttering on his shoulder, Peter resolved to bring happiness to this sad figure by creating a true Christmas miracle!

     It took him two days to set his plan in motion.

     The van rental had been especially tricky as he could barely reach the pedals and didn't know how to drive. But Peter had flashed his Cheshire grin and anime eyes and explained to the rental agent that he was on a mission to perform a Christmas miracle, and the rental agent had suddenly smiled, ear to ear—but, more importantly, turned his back to put away the rental forms. And that's when Peter grabbed the keys and bolted for the van. Making good use of the bumper, he managed to escape the parking lot and drive across town to meet up with the other boys his age whose help he had enlisted. And no one was injured or killed, so his plan was really beginning to look like a Christmas miracle.

     It was now late on Christmas Eve and, under cover of darkness, he and the other boys his age made their way down the tiny road that led to the old man's cottage, backed the van to his doorstep and rang the bell. The old man was slow to be rousted but, finally, he opened the door and came face to face with little Peter, Cheshire grin and anime eyes set all aglow, by the light of his tiki torch.

     "What's going on? What do you want?" shouted the old man.

     Peter giggled with a maniacal variety of glee, and pronounced, "It's going to be a Christmas miracle!" whereupon he snapped his fingers and two of the other boys shoved a burlap sack over the old man's head, pushed him into the back of the van, and drove off to Santa's village where they knocked on Santa's door. (For this small town was very near the North Pole and everything in it was made of ice and covered in snow. Did I not mention that? Oh. Well, it was. That's why Peter's butt had been tingling from frostbite while he sat on the park ice-bench. Also, the rental van was a ski-do-type van.)

     Santa came to the door wearing only underpants and a sock. Another sock was in his hand and he looked flustered; obviously in a rush. Santa was hairy and he was very old, so all the hair on his body was white. Coincidentally, his underwear was also white fur so that it looked like he was naked and especially hairy, down there. Everyone except the old man thought that it was gross. "Good heavens, boys. Don't you know it's Christmas Eve? I don't have time for—did you kidnap an old man?"

     "Well, technically, old-man-napped... and, old men nap all the time, so..." Little Peter flashed his Cheshire smile and anime eyes and Santa's heart melted so it was a good thing he wasn't Frosty the Snowman.

     "Ho, ho, ho. What can I do for you, little Peter?"

     "I brought someone who needs to meet you," replied little Peter, pulling the sack off the old man's head. The old man stood there in the soft glow of the porch light, face to face with Santa.

     "You!" Santa exclaimed.

     "Who else would I be, Santa?" replied the old man.

     Little Peter was now more confused than usual. "Wait a minute! I thought you didn't believe in Santa."

     "Get me a cane!" demanded the old man.

     Little Peter thought it very rude demanding candy from Santa, especially on Christmas Eve. "Oh no you di—in't..." he muttered, and he and the other boys his age began to giggle nervously, anxious to see how Santa would punish the old man for his insolence.

     But Santa remained quiet and still, and the old man turned to little Peter. "I never said I don't believe in Santa, you idiot! I said I've never seen him."

     "Well now you have!" said little Peter, beaming proudly. "All because of my Christmas miracle!"

     "I'm blind, moron. Where's my cane?"

     I may have forgotten to mention that he tapped his way to town, using a white cane. This was one reason that he had to walk slowly, very slowly.

     "Oh," said Little Peter.

     "And where's my oxygen tank?"

     "You want an oxygen tank for Christmas?" asked little Peter, even more bewildered than usual because, although little Peter had a big heart, he had a small mind; so small that he wouldn't have known a Snow Dove from a common Brown Bat and could only think slowly, very slowly.

     "No, you knucklehead, the great big oxygen tank that I have to lug around everywhere I go."

     Oh yeah, that was another reason that he had to walk slowly, very slowly; because he had a heart condition and had to carry a huge tank of oxygen with him, everywhere he went.

     "Oh," said little Peter who finally seemed to come up to speed and who, incidentally, was 25 years old, like all the other boys his age.

     The old blind man turned, mistakenly facing no one, and said, "As long as I'm here, Santa, let's talk about that Rubic's Cube you put in my stocking last Christmas..."

Epilogue:
     Santa later testified in court, and little Peter and the other boys his age were sentenced to prison on charges of kidnapping and grand theft, auto. But it was an ice-prison and they managed to escape during a heated argument.

     The old man was actually a great magician—this is why he was fast, very fast, with his hands. He had once been very powerful and had, in fact, given Santa his magical powers, way back when he, Santa, and the world were young. More recently he made helium balloon animals and sold them online, shipping them in little boxes that tended to float and saved money on delivery charges.

     After this incident, the old blind man slowly, very slowly, returned to his daily routine of tapping his way into town, lugging his oxygen tank, sitting in the park, trapping birds for his cat, alone in the knowledge that he was sad and lonely because he didn't actually have a cat. The truth was that lately, every time he'd made it to the grocery store, it was closed, so he had been forced to come to the park and trap birds to eat at home. What he didn't realize was that his Braille watch was running slow and he was now always going to town at night, after store hours, when the only ones in the park were gangs of losers partying and smoking cigarettes, like Peter.

Also, the birds tasted a lot like common Brown Bats.


CHRISTMAS BONUS! 
Alternate Endings:
     After this incident, the old blind man slowly, very slowly, returned to his daily routine of tapping his way into town, lugging his oxygen tank, sitting in the park, trapping birds for his cat, alone in the knowledge that he was sad and lonely because...

(A) ...his cat never ate any of the birds he brought home for it. Only the cat knew that he was actually a rabbit. Also, it was made out of a balloon.

(B) ...he had never married because he got tired of the blind dating scene.

(C) ...he was German and afraid people would call him a not-see.

(D) ...he never enjoyed jokes because he couldn't see the humour in them.

(E) ...he never married. He'd once had a girlfriend, but after she broke up with him, he just couldn't make himself start seeing other people.

(F) ...he was racist and constantly worried that he might be black.

EXTRA CHRISTMAS BONUS...

30 sec. CHRISTMAS BONUS VIDEO...

One basic difference between my 2 kids...

#kids #parenting #humor #funny #video

https://youtu.be/TbNZ8FgYMh0

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