morning gruel

found: ten dollar bill -- must be able to describe

Yesterday Morgaine found ten bucks on the ground as we were walking together.

After making her promise to pay for tea, we talked about what an instant little joy fix it is to find money. Paper money is always the best of course, but the other day when I found a toonie and then bought two croissants for two bucks, it was like they were free. The added bonus of course being that free croissants have no calories...

Anyway, I mentioned to Morgaine that I seem to find money much more often than I lose it. She said that she has the same experience. In fact, I can only remember one single occasion when I lost money. The most money I've found at once is fifty bucks and the least is probably a penny -- however I don't pick anything up off the ground that's less than a quarter unless I've dropped it myself. And even if it is a quarter I still have to evaluate the environmental conditions surrounding said dropped quarter before deciding if it's worth the health risk to pick it up.

My point is that with all the money that Morgaine and I have found in our lives, there must be people out there that lose money more often than they find it. I'm curious as to how that could happen. It just doesn't seem possible to me that you could leave your home with a twenty in your pocket and have it disappear by the time you arrive at your destination. That's some pretty bad luck. So if you are the kind of person who loses money on a regular basis, I'm sorry.

And I thank you for your donation.

cool hair day

This morning I had the most wicked hair.

I had to run some errands first thing and didn't have time for a shower. I looked outside -- it was sunny so I put on my sunglasses. I glanced in the mirror before leaving the house and my hair was killer*. It was some kind of cross between rockabilly and rock star. And the sunglasses and sideburns really pulled the look together.

I looked at Morgaine and said, I think I'm going to leave my hair like this today. She said, yeah it's kinda cool. Yup, all that style just from a good night's sleep -- amazing.

Then I imagined myself strutting down the street. I could have thrown on some beat up jeans, boots, a vintage t-shirt: Yeah, I thought, that would really round out my extra-special coolness. I looked in the mirror again and realized there was one problem... I didn't look like myself. Truthfully, there was absolutely no way I could walk down the street looking like I did. I would have had to fake a bunch of attitude to pull off that hair just because I had slept on it some weird way. I had to admit it, as super-cool as it was, the hair was a big lie.

So I threw on a ball cap, went outside, and checked my attitude at the door.

*please note: 'killer' is not an adjective that I would normally use in conversation but it's very appropriate here.

blossom

I went to work the other day and when I returned home a mere eight hours later, Morgaine had grown.

There were stories that I'd heard about how the body of a mother-to-be can change in a matter of hours but I didn't really believe it. I figured it was an exaggeration.

Turns out it's not: When I left for work that day Morgaine was pregnant to be sure, but not so pregnant that someone would readily give up their seat on the bus for her. And it was still easy for me to forget for a moment that there was already another member of our family getting ready to join us.

But by the evening Morgaine had simply blossomed. She was obviously holding our child in her beautiful, and now rather round, belly. It is no longer a belly that disappears under certain clothing. And so now I have an ever-present reminder of this incredible thing that's happening in my life right now and I'm filled with the constant wonder of what's to come...

in defence of smoking jackets

I have recently taken some flak for owning a smoking jacket.

But this is not just any old smoking jacket -- it's my Opa's velvet smoking jacket. And this is how I came to own it. After my Opa died, I was asked if there was anything that I wanted of his. I wanted his books. Not all of his books, just a couple of Solzhenitsyn novels that he loved.

But the books were gone; they had disappeared quickly as things tend to do after one dies. (I was already well aware of this phenomenon as years earlier my Mom's glasses had disappeared from the hospital immediately upon her death.) Anyway, I couldn't think of anything else of my Opa's that I really wanted. I mean, the welding equipment was pretty darn cool but not very practical.

A few months after he died, I visited my Oma in Winnipeg. She was going to be moving to a smaller suite soon and wanted to know if there was anything that was left of my Opa's that I wanted to take back to Vancouver. I said no but she showed me to his closet anyway. There were a few suits of a vintage not yet old enough to be stylish. That was it. And then my Oma pulled out this smoking jacket. Compared to the suits, it was luxurious: wine-coloured and velvety, with black trim and a subtly-striped silk lining. My Opa was a modest man and it didn't really seem his style. And to tell the truth I could only vaguely recall him ever wearing it. It still looked pretty new and only smelled a little bit like him -- the combined scent of brylcreem and drugstore aftershave. But that faint sign that he had worn it, even just occasionally, reminded me of his slicked back silver hair, his More's cigarillos, his rough stubble against my cheek.

So I brought the smoking jacket home. Like my Opa, I rarely wear it. I'm sure there have been a few parties for which it would have been quite appropriate, but to wear it for fun or for show seems disrespectful. And so it hangs in the back of my closet where every once in a while I rest my face against it and remember him. It doesn't smell like him anymore, but I can still remember the smell. It was a good smell.

photo day

Morgaine and I had a photo day.

It occurs to me that many of you don't really know what Morgaine looks like; there just aren't very many pictures of her floating around in the world. I guess that's the curse of being a photographer -- you always end up behind the camera.

But not this time. Here she is folks: the lovely, the amazing, the one and only... Morgaine!

I think she's fabulous.

(All this and talent too... she also took my new profile pic.)

mole man

Ever since I was a kid, I knew that moles had deadly potential. So when my mole started changing, I ignored it because it could be cancer. I figured if I didn't pay any attention to it, it would simply go away.

Well, it didn't go away. It got bigger and uglier. It grew and grew until it was irresponsible of me to ignore it any longer. So I went to the doctor. She took one look and said it was nothing to worry about. Nothing, I thought, how is that possible? It's hideous! She went on to explain it like this: As we age, our moles grow and change shape and consistency. They get harder and crustier. You know when you go to the beach and you see an old man with a huge, ugly mole on his back? It's like that.

That's right, I had an old man mole. She then said, If you like I can freeze it off for you.

I like, I said, I definitely like.

ubersound

Well we had the ultrasound appointment last Friday.

I know you want to hear all about it... and I've been wanting to tell you. I have to say, it's really something seeing our child moving around and being all wiggly before it's even born. Yup, we saw our baby. We saw hands and feet. It was a wonder.

So I've been wanting to tell you about this for days. The thing is, the entire process of becoming a parent has been impossible to describe in words. Sure, I can tell you that we saw our baby's hands and feet, that we saw our baby moving around, but that's just giving you facts. And I can tell you that it was all completely wonderful. But words like amazing, incredible, wonderful just don't come near to how I feel. When I say this is wonderful, I am let down by the sound of the word escaping my mouth. Like I'm being cheated a little by having to use this limited language when what is happening is simply impossible to describe.

Well now, there's a word that works... indescribable.

freak out free

We have an ultrasound appointment today.

This will be the first time we've seen our baby since our initial ultrasound about three months ago. Back then our child looked a lot like a cashew. Or maybe a soybean. But today it will look like a fully formed human being. And for those of you who are going to ask: No, we will not be finding out the sex.

This has been such a wonderful experience so far. I am constantly amazed by the whole process. Sometimes I'll forget for just a moment that I'm going to be a dad then I'll look over at Morgaine, see her growing belly and think WOW. Every day of this has been a joy. And did I mention that I felt the baby kick for the first time last week? Yup, pretty darn amazing.

Men's responses to my impending fatherhood has been fascinating. There are several guys who have asked if I'm freaked out and are surprised when I say no. I think that it has become an expected, and somewhat superficial, response for a man to be 'freaked out' by the idea of becoming a dad. So I've met a number of guys who are freaked out by the mere thought of it. They act all, Oh my God, my whole life is going to change! Meanwhile all I can think is, Sure it's going to change...

I can't wait!

rare people

The other day I had breakfast with a bunch of people that I'd never met.

They were all photographers. Morgaine had to translate their photo-speak for me hence my laughter would regularly chime in a few seconds late. But being the great bunch of people they are, they pretended not to notice.

It's rare when I get to meet someone who speaks the same language as me. I mean that language of the spirit, where a person's behaviour makes total sense to me. And when they start talking about their experience of life, I understand completely because I have a similar experience. It's refreshing to meet a person like that because it seems to validate my own choices, my own path. It's in these meetings that I realize that there are other people walking their own path near mine and we will be able to walk together at times when our paths converge. And when our paths diverge, I like to believe that they will come back together again and hopefully again. Yes, it's a rare gift to hear a voice that speaks the truth as I feel it. A voice that belongs to a being whose actions make sense. The kind of person you meet just once and you can't wait to see them again.

My new friend Jesh De Rox is that kind of person to me.

And so, of course, is Morgaine.

putting the you in utah

There are a lot of people from Utah (Utahnians? Utites? Utahers?) who blog. Some of you even read my blog. So I'd like to share my singular experience of your fine state.

I went to Utah 30 years ago when I was a kid. You see, my family had a motorhome and we drove all over North America. I was somewhat resentful of the RV because I suffered greatly from motion sickness. I wanted a cottage by the lake like EVERYBODY ELSE IN MANITOBA because throwing up in a moving vehicle while listening to Arlo Guthrie on the 8-track every day for two months wasn't my idea of a satisfactory summer vacation.

Anyway, we stopped in Salt Lake City and took a tour of the Mormon Tabernacle. I was especially fascinated by the tiny dioramas in the presentation center that had phones that you had to pick up to listen to the commentary. I don't remember much about the history of Mormonism but I do remember the tour guide saying that if you were at the back of the Tabernacle and someone at the front dropped a pin, you'd be able to hear it. How did they know that?

I spent the rest of the day wondering two things: a) What the heck would anyone be doing in the Tabernacle with a pin?, and b) How many more weeks will it be until I can enjoy solid food again?