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 Mature Applicant

   

 For me, being a writer is very rewarding, but not in a way that means I don't need a day job.
     I've been lucky in that my day jobs have always come to me very easily, been exceptionally lucrative and allowed me the time I need to write. I never worried about my job—that is, until I no longer had one.

The Shot Across the Bow:
     One day, about five years ago, I was in my car, listening to the radio. The host was interviewing a man who had a Masters in Software Engineering, had been in the business about thirty years and risen within the corporate structure to manage large projects and oversee a team of experts. He was well-spoken, seemed very grounded, and simply oozed competence. He reminded me of myself, except for the master's degree, high level of corporate achievement and the oozing. For most of his career, he had been working on a massive project for a very large firm. After successfully guiding the decades-long project through its final stages, he was told there was no other slot within the corporation for him. For the first time in his professional life, he found himself unemployed, at the age of 55. I listened attentively because, at that time, I was 55 and seriously considering leaving my job of 15 years. That parallel seemed particularly relevant.
     At first, the software engineer was not worried about his job-hunting prospects. He had done well for himself, and no longer needed the high wage or wanted the high-pressure of being a Project Manager, and was justifiably confident that he would be seen as valuable in a lower-ranked position. Two years later, he was still unemployed.
     Looking back, he realized that, from a job-seeking point of view, he had made a few mistakes during his career. He had failed to keep track of all of his smaller achievements in bringing the main project to fruition. And so that one, large-scale project and one employer ended up being just about the only thing on his resume. He'd also failed to get a written endorsement from people he had worked with who had found him valuable. So he had very few references. And, he'd focused so intently on his own project, that he'd lost contact with everyone else in his profession. But, he couldn't shake the feeling that the largest factor was his age.
     Regardless of his experience and the wisdom that came with it, he no longer fit. Some prospective employers viewed him as too old to be of use; others as overqualified and, potentially, a threat to their own position within the corporate hierarchy. Beyond that, he was not a blindly enthusiastic young graduate. His mature perspective precluded an unswerving dedication to any single capitalistic cause. And, with a family and a full life waiting for him at home, he was no longer the type to stay late to meet an unreasonable deadline. Another separator was the fact that, though he wanted to work, he did not need the money. His perspective and all of his motivations were different than the rest of the workforce.
     He had always felt himself to be a valuable asset, a very handy guy to have around, and was stunned to find himself unable to obtain work in his chosen field, at any level. To this day, I wonder what became of that man, and listen carefully to Walmart greeters and fast food clerks, thinking I might one day recognize his voice.

Familiar Waters:
     Well, that interview scared me a little.
     I, too, was 55 and might soon be unemployed. I, too, had always been seen as a valuable asset in every project I'd ever been involved with. And I, too, had remained within a single organization for too many years, never kept track of all my successes, never got endorsements from people who I'd worked with, and allowed my old contacts to fade away. Like the software engineer, I had done well enough for myself that I didn't really need a lot of money. And, like the software engineer, I had never had to look for work before. When I was younger and more connected, I had always had offers of new and interesting work waiting for me when a project ended. Those days were gone.
     Initially, I wanted to return to my roots and find some magazine-related work. But that dream was dashed within the first week.
     Based on my resume, four of the most successful local publishers were gracious enough to talk with me. The publishing world had certainly changed since I was last involved. Twenty-five years ago, the magazine business was similar to the modern movie industry; under pressure from competitive forms of entertainment, but still a big draw. But then the Internet evolved, robbing the magazine world of all but a thin wedge of the pie. There was little fat on the bone and only the fiscally-savviest magazines survived. The essential question from each publisher boiled down to, "How will hiring you bring me more money?" Truth was, it wouldn't. I was no longer a good fit for any highly competitive business environment. Though I am an experienced layout artist and skilled writer, I'm just not hungry enough to compete with a newcomer armed with fresh enthusiasm. I could possibly have fit in a management position but was unwilling to commit to such responsibility.


Murkier Depths:
     I spent the next month rebuilding my resume, searching and applying for a wide variety of jobs online and in person. Out of forty applications, I managed to get 2 interviews... and one only because I followed up by walking in unannounced and luck was with me that day—the boss just happened to be standing right there and, for whatever reasons, had the time and inclination to talk with me. The position was to manage a small but busy office, just about exactly what I had in mind. That interview went well, but the entire time I got the vibe that he just didn't want an old man at the front desk, regardless of how smoothly I might manage the office. As an able, straight, white male, it was my first personal experience with any form of discrimination.
     Applying for jobs was different from the Jurassic period during which I had last sought work. It was obvious to me that most employers posted their jobs online, insisting resumes be delivered via email or submitted through sophisticated, custom databases. This approach adds a lot of fuel to an already hot job market as it encourages applications from around the entire world. As a result, employers are bombarded with qualified applicants. Like a government answering machine phone tree, an online application is designed to keep the hordes at arm's length until they can be whittled down to a civil and manageable gathering. Several times, I followed up an online application by walking in the front door, tailored resume and cover letter in hand, but I never got past the receptionist.
     With larger organizations, even applying for low-level filing clerk positions requires you to open an account, sign in, create a personal profile, reconfigure your resume to fit the categories of the company database and, as often as not, take a series of skill-assessing tests. When it comes to computers, I'm unusually adept, but even for me, it was a time-consuming, frustrating, and often confusing process. I once spent more than two hours applying for a position, only to then be served an automated message telling me that my resume, test results and application were invalid because I had already spent two hours applying to that position which had been posted under a different title, on a different database.
     Adding to my frustration was the gut feeling that all of these jobs would end up going to people with inside connections. I have since learned this to be truer than not.
     Filling out online applications made me realize that the entire job-seeking vocabulary had also evolved. I noticed that the language was wordy and laced with hyperbole, and there was an expectation for certification for many tasks which I considered minor, like sorting mail or sending and receiving emails. I had done all those things, but the existence of certification for such things had never occurred to me. The unsupported claims on my resume would be pitted against certification on a competitor's resume. The discrepancy between my short, straight-shooting resume and the expectations of the application process was blatant. This, alone, should have made me realize that I am not cut out for any kind of government work. Sadly, I persevered.
     Judy, one of my oldest and most intelligent friends has built a strong business for herself developing powerful resumes, and coaching professionals as they transition from one career to another. (Website: http://www.resumecoach.ca/) I gave Judy a call and she graciously agreed to help me supercharge my resume. Over the course of a few weeks, we spent many hours dredging from my memory every significant event that might demonstrate an acquired skill, then translating it into what I sardonically referred to as "Govie-speak." My resume expanded from one and a half pages to seven. Eventually, I ended up with nine hefty modules that I could swap and adjust to tailor a resume toward anything from communications to janitorial work, management to choral singing—whatever the situation required. I had become a career chameleon.

     For another month, I continued filling out online applications to government organizations. What finally KO'd that effort was a ninety-minute test that might have been written by Dr. Suess. Here is a sample. (I made this one up, but truly, it is not an exaggeration.)

Given that:
• Lamalexors are speedy, but inaccurate, and can enter ten pages of data per hour.
• Lamalemors are slow, but accurate, and can enter 5 pages of data per hour.
• Loralamas are very dedicated, but only moderately accurate, and can enter 3 pages of data an hour.
If your team consists of 5 Lumalexors, 3 Lamalemors, and one Loralama, what organizational arrangement would be best to most efficiently expedite the task at hand?

     Very Blade Runner-esque: "You're in a desert, walking along in the sand when all of a sudden you look down and see a tortoise. It's crawling toward you..."
     Most of the questions involved juggling five or six loosely related variables and could be figured out with the help of a piece of scrap paper, but none were easy or obvious and many contained logical flaws, or at least prompted you toward logically flawed assumptions. At best, such a test might reveal people who are either dumb or desperate enough to waste time with vapid word-puzzles but would most certainly serve as a deterrent to anyone of value. And, in no way would it help qualify a candidate for a clerking position.
     I came away from it shaking and soaked in sweat. Classic PTSD or, possibly, an inoperable brain tumour, according to WebMD.
     Finally, I realized that I would never fit in with any organization that valued such tests and that this had been a completely misguided waste of two months.
     Judy's advice was not flawed. She is very good at what she does. The resume we'd created was a precision-tooled, high-powered implement aimed at a specific target. Problem was, I had identified the wrong target. I had forgotten that I am results-oriented and prone to speaking my mind. I have no aversion to authority but am also not averse to questioning it. I wouldn't last a week in a government organization.
     I changed tactics and targeted local businesses that interested me, regardless of whether they were advertising an opening or not. I did manage to get sit-downs with more people, this way. At first, I thought my new, seven-page resume might help me through the door of smaller organizations, but I quickly discovered that the pomposity and wordiness of the document were embarrassing to defend in an interview with someone in the "real" world. Managers in money making organizations don't have the time or patience to wade through seven verbose pages. Nor can they afford to hire based on vague and hyperbolic claims of competence. After a couple of tries, I completely stopped using it.
     The world hadn't changed that much.


The Last Gush of Bilge Water:
     Through an organization called GT Hiring Solutions, the provincial government offers free counselling and other resources for people having trouble in their job search. (I recommend this service. It is very well organized and there are a lot of valuable resources available, at no cost.) 
     I signed up for a session of councilling. During the session, the young counsellor asked me for a copy of my resume. I gave her the two-page version. She looked it over and seemed impressed, said it was "nice." But as I was digging around in my briefcase for the accompanying sheet of references, she noticed the other resume and asked to see it. "Whoa!" she exclaimed. I was about to make a joke of it when she squealed, "This is very impressive!"
     "It's seven pages long, littered with exaggerations and redundancies. It's about as close to reality as a movie based on actual events starring Jean Claude Van Damne. Who in the world would waste valuable time reading it?" Or watching a movie with Jean Claude Van Damne, for that matter, I thought, but did not say.
     She held up an index finger, putting me on pause, and I waited ten minutes while she finished reading it. "It's exactly what HR people are looking for," she declared.
     That was my last counselling session.

The Waters Within:

     My difficulty in obtaining employment certainly had something to do with external factors. The work world was filled with bias, and I was fishing without a network.
     But, I too, had changed and now harboured internal barriers to employment.
     Most significantly, I had no idea what I wanted to do. This lack of focus led to a lot of wasted effort pursuing jobs I was never going to take. It also prevented me from narrowing my wage expectations, which made me shy of commitment. Throughout the previous months, I had been torn between interesting but stressful, high-paying jobs and the exact opposite: mundane, low-paying jobs.
     At the end of one interview, I was offered the job I had applied for and then I suddenly stalled. The interviewer asked me why I was reluctant to accept and I admitted that I wasn't sure. I apologized for wasting her time and told her that perhaps I might just go and do some construction work while I try to figure this out.
     I wasn't joking. Locally, construction was booming and there was an extreme shortage of skilled and reliable workers, to the point where even pushing a broom could pay $20/hr! This was less than half my previous wage, but almost double the wage of most low-end jobs. I was handy, had built two houses for myself, and fitter than most. It wasn't what I wanted, but it was a great stop-gap measure.
     That day, I logged on to Used.ca and called the first individual who wanted some help with what he thought was a small building project. It was not a small project.
     I spent the next year helping renovate his house; top to bottom. That act of exasperation turned out to be a wonderful experience during which I honed and expanded my practical building skills, made lots of money, kept in shape and softened the crease in my brow.
     I also had plenty of time to solidify my goals—though I didn't actually do that.


Wading Back In:
     When that project ended, I joined a GT Hiring Solutions workshop for "mature" job-seekers (50-65) and made some interesting discoveries by observing eleven other people who were in the same position as myself.
     Upon first looking the group over, I was impressed. We were all very presentable. Every one of us there looked younger than I'd expected. Many of us still a lot of the original colour in our hair. As a group, we were fitter than average—no one was feeble or doddering—and we each had an obvious bright spark of energy. But as we got deeper into discussing our job hunting goals, strategies and experiences, I noticed that many of our group—myself included—had a set of somewhat justified attitude problems. Justified or not, though, they were still problems.

• We have fewer connections.
     Most of us had far fewer friends than when we were in our thirties. For a variety of reasons, we are much less networked.
     Adding to the impact of this observation: A good friend of mine retired from the military at about the same time that I walked away from my job. He is close to my age, and, like me, sought a new, lower-stress position, far removed from what he'd been doing for the last 30 years. The day he retired, he had three job offers on the table. Why? Because he and his family are the most social people I have ever met and, thus, he has a very powerful network filled with people who know his value. I can safely predict that he will never be unemployed, so long as he is willing to work.

• We lack the blind enthusiasm of youth.
     Blind enthusiasm is what leads newcomers to jump into what seems a very limited opportunity where they learn and wait until one day, there's an unexpected shift in the corporation and the cell walls crack and a shaft of light appears, leading them to the next level. On our timeline, we can't afford to wait for seismic change so, though we search for lower-level positions, we want them to utilize our advanced skills and experience. This is not a realistic expectation.
     As well, workers who are nearing the end of their working lives tend to be less enthused with expanding their skill sets. Learning complicated new skills is not as attractive when you know you won't have the time to hone or build on them.
     Enthusiasm is a very endearing quality which often trumps experience and our general lack of enthusiasm makes us less attractive.

• We are slow to commit.
     This is probably the last job we will ever have. Because we know that we will not be winding our way through the organization toward what interests us most, we wish to get more out of the lower-level positions we apply for. Often our wish list is just not realistic. The most fulfilling jobs are not often at the lower levels.

• We aren't humble.
     Because we bring a lot of experience and skills to the table and are no longer seeking top-dollar for them, we expect to be treated as a valuable asset from day one. Many of the people in our group felt the need to make it clear to the employer that they really didn't need a job. Such a declaration only adds another car to the train of thought that you are overqualified and likely to leave, and is no way to make an employer feel secure in choosing you.

• We have a tendency toward the negative.
     It can be frustrating to watch people learning what we already know, and it's sometimes difficult to remain motivated knowing that the papers we shuffle today are destined to become tomorrow's trash.
     One thing that life teaches us is that it is a long haul from the first inspiration to the last spike, and that few things go as planned. Unblemished success is rare, ethereal, and often fleeting. A skeptic will be proven correct the majority of the time and so, as we age, it is easy to fall into a perpetually critical mode which is not conducive to action and progress, and not welcomed in the workplace.

• We are seeking more meaning.
     Most in my group were searching for less money, less stress, but more meaning. They no longer wanted careers but wanted to feel that they were contributing in some tangible way. Exactly what fulfilled this wish was different for each person. For some, this meant they needed to work for a deserving boss; for others, it meant charity work.

• We want less work.
     Failing to find that one perfect, inspirational position, most of us wished to work a three-day week.
     (Interestingly, one of our group made this work to her advantage. Though she knew absolutely nothing about paint, she walked into a paint store and told the manager her story: She was new to town, having moved because of her husband's job. She wanted to work at one place for the next five years, until her husband retired. She explained that she had chosen the shop because it was one block from her house and that, if he hired her, she would work there, three days a week, for five years, with no vacations. She was hired on the spot. Sometimes, if people can understand your situation, they can better see how you might fit into their organization. So, tell your story.)

• We say "no" to overtime.
     None of us wanted to be pressured into staying past quitting time—there's nothing in it for most of us. We're not looking for extra money or to get ahead in the organization. We just want enough to live semi-retired, without worry.


     In short, what we were all looking for was for a stranger to offer us a job that we are overqualified for, that comes with no more than a perfect and inspiring amount of pressure, and for which we have talent, skills and energy to spare, allowing us to perform above and beyond, so that we are valued, without having to stay beyond quitting time. Something with mid-level pay and entry-level responsibility would do nicely.
     Mature workers can be very fussy job-seekers. And that's probably the single largest reason they retire.


Hauling Myself to Shore:
     The positive experience I had renovating a house altered everything. Right now, being in construction in Victoria is a little like being a doctor: If you attend a dinner party and mention that you wield a hammer, suddenly everyone you talk to is asking for renovation advice, or if you can tile their bathroom, or repair their sink, or build a shed in their backyard. My largest problem wasn't a lack of opportunity; it was an inability to commit. Eventually, I just started saying "yes," and I've been as employed as I want to be, ever since.

Mary-Jane Jessop

     I have never really been able to discern the hand of Fate guiding my life, except in the case of Mary-Jane Jessop.
     When I was in primary school, in the Northern town of Prince Rupert, there was this girl in my class. She was slightly built, shorter than average, blonde, with one green eye and one blue, and smart—she always made the honour roll. Her name was Mary-Jane Jessop and I was in love with her, and every year I'd stare in awe while she stood at the front of the assembly to receive her certificate of achievement. In grade three, her desk was at the far end of the room from mine and though I had never been an honour student, I resolved to get on the honour roll just so that I could stand beside her.
     That year, I made good on my promise. As I recall, it wasn't difficult. I just had to actually start paying attention and do the assigned tasks. So, at the end of the year, I got to stand in line with Mary-Jane Jessop and a handful of others as we received our special certificates. Because we were from the same grade, I did end up standing right next to her and people probably mistook the smile on my face as pride in academic achievement when in fact it was the silly grin guys get when in the presence of grace and beauty. I don't really know why, but I had no deeper plan than to stand beside her and was completely satisfied with having achieved that single thing. I don't recall ever making another move. A year later, my family moved from Prince Rupert to Victoria at the extreme end of the province, 500 plus miles South.
     Mary-Jane and I were done.
     As it turned out, also done were my days on the honour roll.
     The years passed. I got through primary school, high school, and started attending University, and rarely ever thought about Mary-Jane Jessop. But, I never forgot her face or name.
     One morning, a bunch of friends and I were sitting in one of the university cafes drinking coffee, talking sciencey stuff and generally trying to avoid going to class when I overheard someone in a group of girls behind us mention Prince Rupert. When I glanced over, I saw a slightly built, short, blonde girl who instantly reminded me of Mary-Jane Jessop, though it'd been more than 14 years since I last laid eyes on her. I returned to the conversation with my friends, but a large portion of my mind remained focused on the conversation behind me. Eventually, I heard the name "Mary-Jane" and I stole another glance—directly at her, and intense enough to cause discomfort, had she noticed. She had one green and one blue eye!
     In my mind, I was freaking out. It's her! This is a meaningful, preordained moment of destiny that has taken almost 15 years to form. This is the stuff of legends, ballads, movies!
     With no thought to the abruptness of the move, I left the table and walked directly over to Mary-Jane's table, my eyes homed in on hers the entire way. I sat down with my coffee as if invited and took my time settling in, confident that what I was about to say would justify the bold moves. Three young women were now staring at me in stunned silence, waiting for some kind of pickup line. And, for the first time in my life, I thought I had a brilliant one to deliver.
     "Mary-Jane Jessop, my name is Bill. I was in your class in grades 1 to 3 and was so in love with you that I got on the honour roll just so I could stand next to you."
      It was perfect. I was perfect. I delivered the line smoothly and with a sexy smile that would only have been creepy if we were not each other's destiny. Next, I assumed, she would surely gush and we'd start up reminiscing about our old teachers or Prince Rupert, and from there branch off into the different paths our lives had taken, our likes and dislikes, our tastes in music, what we would name our kids, and from there, naturally, to a whirlwind romance and an eternal love that would be written up in great books and sung in songs not by Taylor Swift—or, at the very least, casual sex—both outcomes being quite equivalent to me, back then.
     Mary-Jane and her two friends stared at me in what I initially assumed was appropriate awe. The silence got awkward, then very awkward, and just before it became unbearably awkward the petite and beautiful Mary-Jane Jessop looked directly at me with those perfectly unmatched glistening orbs and said, "Umm. O-k."
     All of the punch went out of my punchline. The jet of confidence I had been piloting stalled and I suddenly became eight years old again. I sputtered the only thing I could think, which was exactly what she'd just said, "Umm, ok..."

     Mary-Jane Jessop's expression was as blank as a mannequin's, seemingly unimpressed by the revelation of her being my first crush and the incredible machinations of Fate that had steered us both to this moment. I might just as well have been a cafeteria server delivering an order of toast and flatly declaring, "Toast."
     I became extremely conscious of the eyes of my friends, her friends and Mary-Jane herself bearing down on me and I segued with, "Well, anyway, nice to see you again," and slunk back to my humdrum, Fateless existence.
     That was about 30 years ago and I have not seen or heard of her since. I'm now old and happily married, with two great kids. I am a hopeless romantic, but I think it's safe to say that the lives of Mary-Jane Jessop and myself are no longer intertwined any more than me and the random stranger who said, "Right on!" referring to my new Superman T-shirt, as we passed in a movie theatre, eight years ago.
     Fate, huh. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing!

______________________________________
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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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A Christmas Skit for Children: The Interview

Every year, my sister organizes a homeschooler Christmas Pageant during which the kids (currently from ages 10 to 18) get to show us parents what they can do. My kids usually like to put on a short skit. In previous years, I have written and directed, but this year I wanted them to play a larger role so I actually listened to their suggestions, no matter how awkward they might be, and wrote pretty much what they told me to, though I added one or two items. I also allowed them to decide how they would act it all out. I advised but did not argue if they overruled me... which they did many times.

A couple of things to note...

• EI stands for Employment Insurance which is a Canadian government program that pays a percentage of your old wage if you suddenly find yourself unemployed. Some try to stretch the benefit as long as possible by applying for jobs while never intending to get hired. To do this, they need proof that they are applying regularly.

• Another thing I need to mention is that there is a reference to "The Onsie Kid," which is a very short music parody video which Noah made last year and which briefly went viral among the homeschooler families we know. This video can be viewed at the link beneath the picture...

Onsie Kid Video: https://youtu.be/GAjvUiptt4k

• Every year, the homeschoolers vote on a theme that all acts must try to incorporate. This year, each act had to include the following four words: Bidet, Waddle, Trump and Maple Syrup.

Below is the final script, which, as always, I release into the public domain in case another desperate parent out there can make some use of it. A link to the video of the final performance is at the end.

The Interview

(must use the words: Waddle, Maple Syrup, Trump and Bidet)

Santa at his desk: “Send in the next applicant! I do hope this one’s a winner. Not sure I can take another 5 billion landings. [adjusting the donut under his bum]

APPLICANT: Dude! This place is amazing. It’s like a full-on mansion. Even has a water fountain in the toilet!

SANTA: The bidet?

APPLICANT: Wow! Even a fancy name!

SANTA: Uhhhh… Breath mint?

APPLICANT: Thanks. Love the place. Love the job. I’ll take it!

SANTA: Hold on there, The Flash, we’ve got a few formalities to go through first. I got your online resume. Uh—it’s a picture of a dog.

APPLICANT: A puppy!

[Long pause while they stare each other down and we wait for Santa’s reaction…]

SANTA: I do love pugs! Sooo cute. Everyone knows that online applications are just for show anyway. We only hire friends and family. You’re my friend’s friend’s friend, so Ha! [rubber stamps the application] Look at that! You’re on the shortlist!

APPLICANT: I even have my own suit!

SANTA: You do?

APPLICANT: I really thought you’d notice.

SANTA: HR rules. We’re not allowed to ask. But, why a bear?

APPLICANT: It’s a dog!

SANTA: Looks like a bear…

APPLICANT: I mean, which would you rather see: A fat old man waddling about in some sort of fetish get up, or a cute puppy?

SANTA: Sorry. That’s not regulation.

APPLICANT: But this’ll make people remember Christmas during the holiday season.

SANTA: What are you talking about? Christmas is the reason for the season!

APPLICANT: Really? I think you’re forgetting Black Friday and Cyber Monday!

SANTA: Ok, you can wear it under the red suit…

APPLICANT: YES! [does the Onsie Dance]

SANTA: …but I’ve got’ta warn you, it’s gon’na chafe. Hey, wait a minute. Aren’t you that Onsie Boy?

APPLICANT: Onsie Kid. In the fake flesh!

SANTA: That dance went viral here at The Pole. It’s pretty close quarters in the workshop and twenty elves got poked in the eye but they totally love you! Wow! This is going to work out great. Ok, just a couple more question. It’s just a formality, but I’ve got to ask: Are you ok with drugging reindeer?

APPLICANT: You drug the reindeer?

SANTA: Well reindeer don’t fly on their own, you know! Got to get them … high.

APPLICANT: Oh. I guess.

SANTA: And you’ve got to push those elves.

APPLICANT: I thought the elves naturally loved to work hard making presents for all the little boys and girls.

SANTA: Are you kidding me? I swear, if it weren’t for rationing their home heating, they wouldn’t work at all! ...for free …16 hours a day…every day of the year. Oh yes, and how many cookies can you eat?

APPLICANT: Maybe four.

SANTA: This is a deal breaker, son. If you can’t eat at least 27... million, you can’t handle this job.

APPLICANT: Are they gluten-free?

SANTA: Almost never.

APPLICANT: Oh. Then, no problem.

SANTA: Have you got any questions for me?

APPLICANT: Can I use your wifi? (pronounced wiffy)

SANTA: My wifey? What have you heard? Those were trumped up charges. Wifey don’t do that no more.

APPLICANT: Uh... Wi-fi.

SANTA: Oh. That’s much more likely. Well, you’ve got the job. Report for work at 8am.

APPLICANT: I’m sorry, what?

SANTA: You’ve got the job.

APPLICANT: Like 8 in the morning? I mean is Starbucks even open then? Believe me, you do not want to see me without my Starbucks.

SANTA: It’s only one day a year.

APPLICANT: Yeah. You know what? That really doesn’t work for me.

SANTA: Go to bed early.

APPLICANT: I would, but right now, I really need my nights. I’m marathoning Game of Thrones on Netflix and just don’t want to break the momentum.

SANTA: You can sleep-in 363 days, afterward.

APPLICANT: Well…

SANTA: It’s one single day.

APPLICANT: Well… ok.

SANTA: Great. See you bright and early, tomorrow morning!

APPLICANT: Dude! Tomorrow’s like, Christmas Eve!

SANTA: Yes. That’s kind of the point…

APPLICANT: No one works Christmas Eve!

SANTA: Actually, lots of people…

APPLICANT: Ah, if you could just sign my E.I. form to say that I applied, that’d be great.

SANTA: Ugh! Not another one! (Sigh) OK.

[APPLICANT hands over his paperwork and Santa signs it…]

APPLICANT: Maple syrup!

SANTA: Er, what was that?

APPLICANT: Sorry. Tourette's.

The Interview Video: https://youtu.be/tqQ4-MspvkM

____________________________

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