I'm steamed rice.
Up to now, I've probably given you the impression that I'm a loner with no friends, that when I walk the halls of The Slammer, I do so with my head down, solitary and sad.
That's not the case. I have friends. I get along well with people. Really I do.
It's just that I'm steamed rice.
You know what I mean.
Nobody ever says, "Ooo! Let's hit that Thai place downtown! I'm dying for some steamed rice!"
Oh, they like the rice just fine. It's quite pleasant; it doesn't offend the taste buds in the least. But it's really just on the sidelines of the main attraction, and you only really notice it when it's slathered in something exciting.
Like I said, I have friends -- quite a few of them -- and they're what really gets the attention while little old rice here is along for the ride.
Louis Bailey is the Angry Chicken to my steamed rice. We've known each other since we were three years old and he's been hot and spicy ever since. He led a revolution in our nursery school -- actually a revolution complete with a sit-in and poorly-spelled construction paper picket signs -- to replace Kool Aid with actual juice. And know what? He won. He led a troupe of snotty-nosed, drooling toddlers (some of them still in diapers) to a snack time victory. About three times a year he gets all up-in-arms about some perceived injustice or other and somehow gets half the student population on-board and riled up over it. Last year he successfully convinced the school board that the student parking lot was so filled with pot holes that it was a safety hazard and likely to result in litigation when someone inevitably got injured or damaged their vehicle. It was repaved within two months. The irony? Louis doesn't even have his license. A month later he was working on getting student radio set up in the cafeteria over lunch period.
Elizabeth Mackenzie's more like Butter Chicken. She's smooth. She's the type who does well in school, plays on half the sports teams, and is always asked to dances and dates, but takes it all with an air of, "Whatever." We met in grade school at the city library. I spent some of the summer when I was 10 hanging around the library while Allie went to camp and Stanley was still a bun in the oven and Beth came in every two days with a pile of books to exchange. She'd plunk them down, take a step back, look up at my dad behind the counter and say, "Alright. What've you got for me today?" and Dad would trek over into the children's section and set her up with a new pile. She read every one. Anyway, one day, as she was following Dad over to the stacks, she said, "You coming or you just gonna sit there all day every day?" without even looking at me. I jumped up and did as I was told. In time, we started talking and it just stuck.
Then there's Wayne Baxter. If I had to identify him as food, I'd have to say he's Soy Sauce: salty as all get out, but pretty universally enjoyed. He's gruff, he's mouthy, and he's opinionated, but he's not mean. He just doesn't edit. By all accounts, he should have ticked off most of the senior class by now, but they all come bouncing back for Baxter their Buddy. Go figure.
And that's where you find me. Beside these three, mostly, and others too, but I'm just the steamed rice. Their the ones that get remembered -- and they should, they're the memorable ones -- and I'm just served up on the side. But hey, at least I get to be on the plate, right?
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
The Return
So I had Stanley up bright and early because, despite my parents' doubts, I am able to operate a clock radio. I made him some toast, poured him a bowl of cereal and proceeded to pack his lunch.
That's right. I can operate a loaf of bread, too.
Anyway, I zipped up the bag, turned to hand it to Stanely, and found him, spoon half-way to his mouth, staring vaguely ahead of himself, and grinning maniacally.
"What are you all Lex Luthor about?"
"Nothing." He snickered and his smile grew wider.
"Obviously it's something. What are you grinning about?"
"It's those people on the West Coast," he said, barely able to contain his excitement.
"What about them?"
"They have no idea!"
Did I mention that my brother's a seven year old psycho?
"They have no idea about what, Stanley? Spit it out."
He was downright bursting.
"I've been up for half an hour, right?"
"Yeah. So?"
He covered his mouth like he was holding the word's biggest secret between his teeth.
"They're all still sleeping! They have no idea what I'm doing right now! I could be doing anything and they wouldn't even know! They wouldn't find out for hours! They're not even awake!"
I considered looking to the heavens for answers. Instead I said:
"Yeah? Well remember that in England, they're already having lunch and you just woke up. They've been doing things for hours while you were still asleep."
His jaw dropped, his spoon rattled in his bowl of Cheerios, and I handed him his lunch bag, satisfied.
School was ... well ... school. You know what's ridiculous about the inmates at The Slammer? It's the first day back after, what, fourteen days? and half of them are all running up and hugging one another or slamming chests or doing little slick handshakes like they're long lost buddies. Seriously, people. It's been 14 days, and most of you saw each other over the break, too.
In any case, my parents came home tonight. They got in the door around seven o'clock and by 7:15 they were on the phone to Allie at Pennington's.
Seriously? They came in and called Allie right away. While Stanley and I waited. Isn't that like calling for pizza when you're sitting at a table full of food?
Anyway, once they got around to us, we sat through a twenty-minute synopsis of their trip while Mom rubbed moisturizer into dad's lobster-red back. It was a little difficult to patch together their story, given the frequency with which they interrupted one another. Basically, it was sunshine, blah, blah, blah, water, blah, blah, blah, starfish, blah, blah, blah, the buffet, blah, blah, blah, and doomed waterskiing.
Then they broke out the gifts.
For Stanley, a stuffed shark toy and a starfish tie.
For Allie, a woven straw box and a sea-glass necklace.
And for me?
A keychain.
That's right.
A keychain.
With a palm tree on it.
That's how dull my parents think I am.
*sigh*
Nice to have you home.
That's right. I can operate a loaf of bread, too.
Anyway, I zipped up the bag, turned to hand it to Stanely, and found him, spoon half-way to his mouth, staring vaguely ahead of himself, and grinning maniacally.
"What are you all Lex Luthor about?"
"Nothing." He snickered and his smile grew wider.
"Obviously it's something. What are you grinning about?"
"It's those people on the West Coast," he said, barely able to contain his excitement.
"What about them?"
"They have no idea!"
Did I mention that my brother's a seven year old psycho?
"They have no idea about what, Stanley? Spit it out."
He was downright bursting.
"I've been up for half an hour, right?"
"Yeah. So?"
He covered his mouth like he was holding the word's biggest secret between his teeth.
"They're all still sleeping! They have no idea what I'm doing right now! I could be doing anything and they wouldn't even know! They wouldn't find out for hours! They're not even awake!"
I considered looking to the heavens for answers. Instead I said:
"Yeah? Well remember that in England, they're already having lunch and you just woke up. They've been doing things for hours while you were still asleep."
His jaw dropped, his spoon rattled in his bowl of Cheerios, and I handed him his lunch bag, satisfied.
School was ... well ... school. You know what's ridiculous about the inmates at The Slammer? It's the first day back after, what, fourteen days? and half of them are all running up and hugging one another or slamming chests or doing little slick handshakes like they're long lost buddies. Seriously, people. It's been 14 days, and most of you saw each other over the break, too.
In any case, my parents came home tonight. They got in the door around seven o'clock and by 7:15 they were on the phone to Allie at Pennington's.
Seriously? They came in and called Allie right away. While Stanley and I waited. Isn't that like calling for pizza when you're sitting at a table full of food?
Anyway, once they got around to us, we sat through a twenty-minute synopsis of their trip while Mom rubbed moisturizer into dad's lobster-red back. It was a little difficult to patch together their story, given the frequency with which they interrupted one another. Basically, it was sunshine, blah, blah, blah, water, blah, blah, blah, starfish, blah, blah, blah, the buffet, blah, blah, blah, and doomed waterskiing.
Then they broke out the gifts.
For Stanley, a stuffed shark toy and a starfish tie.
For Allie, a woven straw box and a sea-glass necklace.
And for me?
A keychain.
That's right.
A keychain.
With a palm tree on it.
That's how dull my parents think I am.
*sigh*
Nice to have you home.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Bed Time Questions
Two somewhat noteworthy things happened today.
The first was a phonecall. My mom, who will return with dad sometime tomorrow night, called from some port or other to remind me to get Stanley (the junior) up and ready to catch the bus to school by eight tomorrow. As if I'd forget. It's back to The Slammer for me, too.
Stanley's pretty happy to return, though. He spent an hour today ironing a clean shirt and practising tying a new red-and-black tie he got for Christmas.
In the background on the phone I could hear cheers, shouts, and general shenanigans.
"Your dad's waterskiing," Mom explained. "One last go before we get back on a plane. But don't worry. I don't see this hobby taking off anytime soon. I swear he's nearly drowned three times. Besides, he's missing his trombone."
I assured her that I'd get Stanley on the bus in the morning, told her I'd see her tomorrow, and hung up.
The second event isn't really that noteworthy, either, except that it illustrates Stanley's brain functioning for those who don't know him well. Like I said, he's a bit analytical and asks enough questions to make Alex Trebek want to hang himself.
Tonight it was time zones. I was trying to get him away from the ironing board and into bed. It went something like this:
"Martin?"
"Yeah?"
"You know time zones?"
"What do you mean, do I know time zones?"
"I mean, you know time zones?"
"What about them?"
"Well, what time is it?"
"Here?"
"Yeah."
"8:15."
"What time is it in London?"
"London, England, or London, Ontario."
"London, England."
I did a little math.
"1:15."
"In the morning?"
"Yeah."
"Today or tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
"So in England it's tomorrow when it's today here?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"At the same time." To his credit, technically it wasn't a question.
"Yeah."
"So if I do something right now, to them it will be yesterday?"
"I guess so."
"So does that mean if I do something right now, in England it's already history?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, is our present their past?"
"Well no."
"Why not?"
"Because even though their clocks are at a different time, it's still happening at the same time in reality."
"Why? If it's 1:15 there and it's only 8:15 here, it's not the same time, is it?"
"No, it's not the same time on the clocks, but it's the same time still."
"How's that?"
"Shouldn't you be going to bed?"
"I will. How's that?"
"How's what? Bedtime or this whole time zone thing?"
"How can it be different times and the same time, too?"
Why can't I have a brother who just goes to bed? Or to boarding school like Allie, for that matter. At the rate he's going, he'll be old enough to go at 8 and a half.
"Because clocks are just clocks. Yeah, the clock times will be different, but in the great scheme of the universe, you're still doing something and it happens when it happens and even though we might label it differently, it's still happening just at that moment. When it happens. An hour from now, it'll be 9:15 and if someone asks me, 'When did your brother ask you a stupid question about time instead of going to bed?', I'll answer, 'An hour ago.' And in an hour, in England it'll be 2:15, and if some English guy asks another English guy, 'When did Martin Melbourne's brother ask him a stupid question about time instead of going to bed?', that other English guy will answer, 'An hour ago,' and then he'll add, 'and then he went to bed.'"
Stanley stopped and looked at me for a moment, tie in hand.
"Good. That makes sense."
And off he went to bed.
The first was a phonecall. My mom, who will return with dad sometime tomorrow night, called from some port or other to remind me to get Stanley (the junior) up and ready to catch the bus to school by eight tomorrow. As if I'd forget. It's back to The Slammer for me, too.
Stanley's pretty happy to return, though. He spent an hour today ironing a clean shirt and practising tying a new red-and-black tie he got for Christmas.
In the background on the phone I could hear cheers, shouts, and general shenanigans.
"Your dad's waterskiing," Mom explained. "One last go before we get back on a plane. But don't worry. I don't see this hobby taking off anytime soon. I swear he's nearly drowned three times. Besides, he's missing his trombone."
I assured her that I'd get Stanley on the bus in the morning, told her I'd see her tomorrow, and hung up.
The second event isn't really that noteworthy, either, except that it illustrates Stanley's brain functioning for those who don't know him well. Like I said, he's a bit analytical and asks enough questions to make Alex Trebek want to hang himself.
Tonight it was time zones. I was trying to get him away from the ironing board and into bed. It went something like this:
"Martin?"
"Yeah?"
"You know time zones?"
"What do you mean, do I know time zones?"
"I mean, you know time zones?"
"What about them?"
"Well, what time is it?"
"Here?"
"Yeah."
"8:15."
"What time is it in London?"
"London, England, or London, Ontario."
"London, England."
I did a little math.
"1:15."
"In the morning?"
"Yeah."
"Today or tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
"So in England it's tomorrow when it's today here?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"At the same time." To his credit, technically it wasn't a question.
"Yeah."
"So if I do something right now, to them it will be yesterday?"
"I guess so."
"So does that mean if I do something right now, in England it's already history?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, is our present their past?"
"Well no."
"Why not?"
"Because even though their clocks are at a different time, it's still happening at the same time in reality."
"Why? If it's 1:15 there and it's only 8:15 here, it's not the same time, is it?"
"No, it's not the same time on the clocks, but it's the same time still."
"How's that?"
"Shouldn't you be going to bed?"
"I will. How's that?"
"How's what? Bedtime or this whole time zone thing?"
"How can it be different times and the same time, too?"
Why can't I have a brother who just goes to bed? Or to boarding school like Allie, for that matter. At the rate he's going, he'll be old enough to go at 8 and a half.
"Because clocks are just clocks. Yeah, the clock times will be different, but in the great scheme of the universe, you're still doing something and it happens when it happens and even though we might label it differently, it's still happening just at that moment. When it happens. An hour from now, it'll be 9:15 and if someone asks me, 'When did your brother ask you a stupid question about time instead of going to bed?', I'll answer, 'An hour ago.' And in an hour, in England it'll be 2:15, and if some English guy asks another English guy, 'When did Martin Melbourne's brother ask him a stupid question about time instead of going to bed?', that other English guy will answer, 'An hour ago,' and then he'll add, 'and then he went to bed.'"
Stanley stopped and looked at me for a moment, tie in hand.
"Good. That makes sense."
And off he went to bed.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
The Tree
I guess I should explain a bit about my family.
From the outside we probably look sickeningly typical. Two parents. Three kids. A cat. All living in a two-storey house in the suburbs.
But let me tell you, from the inside, we're anything from typical. I don't pretend to be anyone's idea of an ideal son (or brother, or friend, or cool kid at the high school, for that matter) but somehow I'm the normal one in this family. Scary thought.
My parents, Stan and Shiela, are in their early forties and have somehow managed to hold down decent jobs for the past couple of decades. Dad's the head librarian at the city library and mom is some sort of efficiency expert. Basically she goes into businesses and says, "You people waste a load of time/energy/money/brain cells," and tells them how to fix things. As far as I can tell, she is reposible for a third of the unemployment in three counties.
It's their hobbies that makes my parents odd, mostly. Mom has started knitting works of art. Literally. A few years back, she gave me a sweater for my birthday, featuring some hideous interpretation of Van Gogh's Starry Night. She practically stuffed me into it, proud as punch, and sent me off to school. Impressionism and homeknitted wear do not make for easy social integration. I wore my coat almost the entire day, until the teacher assumed I was having "the chills" and sent me to the school nurse to be checked out.
Then there's Dad. He changes hobbies more than most kids take showers. Two months ago, it was sword swallowing, but after a terrifying birthday party and a visit to emergency that was nixed. Next was going to be water polo, but he didn't have much luck recruiting players to start a recreational league in the town. Lately it's been the trombone. I try to be out of the house as much as possible.
As for the kids, there's me who, at 17, is the oldest and dullest, but when I look at the other two, I'm happy to have that distinction.
Allie is 14. What's most noticeable about her place in our house is that it's usually vacant. She was sent to boarding school the year she turned 13. Wait. I guess "sent" isn't the right word. "Was finally allowed to attend" would be better. From the time she was six or seven, she pestered Mom and Dad to send her to boarding school -- no specific explanation, just an obsession which stuck around much longer than expected. When she turned 13, she successfully argued that she was now a teenager and was therefore old enough to live away from home. She attends The Pennington Academy, an all-girl school about two hours from our house. We see her on holidays, long weekends, and whenever. Come to think of it, maybe she was onto something.
Finally, there's Stanley, Jr. who at seven is a bit too analytical for his own good. Personally, I think he needs an analyst. He wears this battered blue suit jacket and some sort of tie almost all the time, even when he's playing outside. He asks lots of questions, which is fine sometimes, but not so fine if you're in the middle of a movie, almost at the end of a hard level in Crash Mandarin, or trying desperately to look nonchalant at the food court in the mall. My big question is why's he Stanley, Jr. when I'm the first born?
See? I'm looking at what I've written and one thing becomes clear: with a family like this, I don't stand a chance.
From the outside we probably look sickeningly typical. Two parents. Three kids. A cat. All living in a two-storey house in the suburbs.
But let me tell you, from the inside, we're anything from typical. I don't pretend to be anyone's idea of an ideal son (or brother, or friend, or cool kid at the high school, for that matter) but somehow I'm the normal one in this family. Scary thought.
My parents, Stan and Shiela, are in their early forties and have somehow managed to hold down decent jobs for the past couple of decades. Dad's the head librarian at the city library and mom is some sort of efficiency expert. Basically she goes into businesses and says, "You people waste a load of time/energy/money/brain cells," and tells them how to fix things. As far as I can tell, she is reposible for a third of the unemployment in three counties.
It's their hobbies that makes my parents odd, mostly. Mom has started knitting works of art. Literally. A few years back, she gave me a sweater for my birthday, featuring some hideous interpretation of Van Gogh's Starry Night. She practically stuffed me into it, proud as punch, and sent me off to school. Impressionism and homeknitted wear do not make for easy social integration. I wore my coat almost the entire day, until the teacher assumed I was having "the chills" and sent me to the school nurse to be checked out.
Then there's Dad. He changes hobbies more than most kids take showers. Two months ago, it was sword swallowing, but after a terrifying birthday party and a visit to emergency that was nixed. Next was going to be water polo, but he didn't have much luck recruiting players to start a recreational league in the town. Lately it's been the trombone. I try to be out of the house as much as possible.
As for the kids, there's me who, at 17, is the oldest and dullest, but when I look at the other two, I'm happy to have that distinction.
Allie is 14. What's most noticeable about her place in our house is that it's usually vacant. She was sent to boarding school the year she turned 13. Wait. I guess "sent" isn't the right word. "Was finally allowed to attend" would be better. From the time she was six or seven, she pestered Mom and Dad to send her to boarding school -- no specific explanation, just an obsession which stuck around much longer than expected. When she turned 13, she successfully argued that she was now a teenager and was therefore old enough to live away from home. She attends The Pennington Academy, an all-girl school about two hours from our house. We see her on holidays, long weekends, and whenever. Come to think of it, maybe she was onto something.
Finally, there's Stanley, Jr. who at seven is a bit too analytical for his own good. Personally, I think he needs an analyst. He wears this battered blue suit jacket and some sort of tie almost all the time, even when he's playing outside. He asks lots of questions, which is fine sometimes, but not so fine if you're in the middle of a movie, almost at the end of a hard level in Crash Mandarin, or trying desperately to look nonchalant at the food court in the mall. My big question is why's he Stanley, Jr. when I'm the first born?
See? I'm looking at what I've written and one thing becomes clear: with a family like this, I don't stand a chance.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Rude Awakening
It's probably not a good omen.
I was awakened this morning -- January 1, 2009 -- at a quarter to seven by the phone ringing. Given that I had FINALLY made it to bed at five o'clock after convincing my little brother Stanley that everyone on the continent had indeed had their midnights come and go, I was a bit shocked by the phone ringing and I guess that's why I bounced about two feet off my matress and tumbled into that crack between the bed and the wall.
And let me tell you, that's not a comfortable awakening.
Obviously the phone was still ringing, so I clambered, thrashed, and clawed my way off of the floor, clutching desperately at the covers and sheets to get to the phone. Believe me, that's a lot harder than it sounds, because your legs end up under the bed while your arms are on top, and in the middle your butt's squashed against the wall and you can't bend your knees right. It's the type of thing that, if it had been witnessed, could pretty much blow a guy's dating prospects for a good six months, 'cause nobody's going to look dignified in that position.
So back to the issue at hand, I finally flopped onto the bed, red-faced and sweating like a raging pig, and reached for the phone.
And what do I get?
Happy New Year wishes from friends?
No.
A call from my loving parents on their cruise in the Bahamas?
No.
A surprise call from Kristen Morris, who woke up suddenly realizing that this was the year she would finally acknowledge my existence and, even more importantly, her undying love for me?
Surprisingly, no.
What do I get?
A call from a machine asking if I want my ducts cleaned.
No.
No, I do not.
I do not want my ducts cleaned.
And I certainly do not want my ducts cleaned at seven in the morning on New Year's Day.
Like I said, it's probably not a good omen.
I was awakened this morning -- January 1, 2009 -- at a quarter to seven by the phone ringing. Given that I had FINALLY made it to bed at five o'clock after convincing my little brother Stanley that everyone on the continent had indeed had their midnights come and go, I was a bit shocked by the phone ringing and I guess that's why I bounced about two feet off my matress and tumbled into that crack between the bed and the wall.
And let me tell you, that's not a comfortable awakening.
Obviously the phone was still ringing, so I clambered, thrashed, and clawed my way off of the floor, clutching desperately at the covers and sheets to get to the phone. Believe me, that's a lot harder than it sounds, because your legs end up under the bed while your arms are on top, and in the middle your butt's squashed against the wall and you can't bend your knees right. It's the type of thing that, if it had been witnessed, could pretty much blow a guy's dating prospects for a good six months, 'cause nobody's going to look dignified in that position.
So back to the issue at hand, I finally flopped onto the bed, red-faced and sweating like a raging pig, and reached for the phone.
And what do I get?
Happy New Year wishes from friends?
No.
A call from my loving parents on their cruise in the Bahamas?
No.
A surprise call from Kristen Morris, who woke up suddenly realizing that this was the year she would finally acknowledge my existence and, even more importantly, her undying love for me?
Surprisingly, no.
What do I get?
A call from a machine asking if I want my ducts cleaned.
No.
No, I do not.
I do not want my ducts cleaned.
And I certainly do not want my ducts cleaned at seven in the morning on New Year's Day.
Like I said, it's probably not a good omen.
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