The Mohawk Strikes Again

What is the ultimate goal when considering the perfect partner for your teen child?

Is it someone who treats them well?  Of course.

Is it someone who is kind?  Definitely

Is it someone who can nail your forehead with a Nerf gun from an acute angle with pinpoint accuracy?  

The answer is surprisingly... yes.

My wish for all of you today, is that one time in your life you feel the resigned joy of knowing that your young offspring's significant other feels comfortable enough to pull up beside you in the driveway, motion to you to roll down your window, and with excited determination, shoot you right between the eyes.

Yours in chucks (ahem.. sweet new baby blue pf flyers)

Suzie

The Black Mirror Effect

This is the story of what happens when you innocently try to take a couple hours for yourself, to indulge in a little shameless Netflix binging.

***Disclaimer*** There are frightening images.

First I shall set the scene…

It was early morning (roughly 12:45 pm).  I was in my pj’s, coffee in hand, settled on the couch.  I had bravely chosen a new program to discover, selecting British sci-fi, psychological drama “Black Mirror”; a choice far from my norm.  I would later learn that the show is in fact, a modern day remake of the cult classic “The Twilight Zone”.  Had I know this going in, I would never have started it; (mostly because I always hated that stupid show) the twilight zone is creepy shit you don’t mess with.

Alas, the saga continues…

Episode 2 was a doozy.  I just have to say, the guy in this episode is a real tool.  I mean, who checks all their belongings at the door of some sketchy secretive gaming cult, and agrees to have a device implanted into their brain stem as a test subject…. Um hello! McFly!

So yeah, he pretty much gets what he deserves; which is a horrifying mind journey through his darkest fears, all generated by his own brain; because obviously your own brain knows how to terrify you the most. 

Anyhoo, half way through the episode, I hear a faint voice from beyond my headphones.  It starts to get louder, and then I am jolted by movement in my peripheral vision.

I pull the headphones off and look at my 18 year old daughter as she stands there repeating “Mom… Mom… Mom… Mom… Mom…” all deadpan and full of monotone. 

“What!?” I say.

“I’m going for a shower, you let me sleep too long”

“Okay, whatever”; I give her the finger, and nestle the headphones back onto my ears. 

Back to the show...

I am sorely disappointed with the ending.  There is however, a small offering of conciliation when the credit roll is accompanied by one of my favourite Elvis Presley songs.  You probably don’t know it.   

And this is where things get real scary.  Remembering it now, I can almost hear Rod Sterling setting the scene for my impending doom.

Cut to scene…

I sigh, close my laptop, remove the headphones, and resign myself to doing something half productive with the rest of my day.  I unwittingly head up the stairs to my little loft, Elvis channeling through me as I sing (twang and all)  “Oh Momma liked the Roses, She grew them in the ya….”. 

And that’s when I happened upon the most frightening scene that my brain could conjure; stopped dead in my tracks, I was firmly trapped in the zone.

As I tried to gather my bearings, all I could manage to mutter was “But I was singing Elvis”, as the most genuinely dejected appeal to rewind time.

But alas, it was all too real.  My daughter, gluing her punk-rock, tattooed boyfriend’s hair into a spikey Mohawk, like it was the most normal thing in the world.  And I didn’t even know he was in the house.

I am, days later, still repeating silently in my head “but I was singing Elvis”, over and over.

Scared out of her Chucks,

Suzie

Post Script,

I just want to say, all mohawks aside, he’s actually a good kid that I really like.  But I confess, that I will forever call him “The Mohawk” when he’s not around, because that is a golden nickname for your daughter’s boyfriend… am I right?

No-Fly Zone

About 2 years ago, my dad suggested getting a bird feeder for the backyard.  At the time, my mom thought it an odd request, but dutifully went along. 

Little did she know, that this would set forth a course in which she herself, would become the bird Nazi.

As it turns-out, the feeder has been a source of great joy and entertainment for my Mother. 

My Father?

Well he probably spends more money on bird food than he does on beer; he can frequently be seen in the backyard, bathrobe and slippers, dodging sparrows whilst filling the feeder (as per gentle reminding from his lady); and he has been summoned on more than one occasion, to provide hands-on rescue services for window-slammers. 

On the flip side, he has learned SO much more about bird breeds than he probably ever thought he’d care to.

Feeder regulars include “The woodpeckers”, “The Cardinals”, “The Finches”, and “The Sparrows”… you know, the happy gang.  Like any local pub, the gang pretty much gets along, everyone adding a little something to the ecosystem of the tranquil backyard.

But then something happened this spring, turning my mother into a totalitarian dictator.

“Those damned Red-Winged Black Birds”

And so, with her regulars under threat of invasion, she has taken to standing at the window with a towel, waving it into the air in an attempt to shoo those commi black bastards away.

As I sit typing this, there are 2 big suckers chowing down at the feeder while the little guys wait their turn, watching tentatively from the bushes.

So my wish is for a feeding system that offers acceptance for all kinds of birds, equality for all… as it were.

And what about the squirrels!? Can’t we have some compassion for those dudes?  I mean they really try hard, and all we do is put obstacles in their way.

Can’t we all just get along?