Middle Ages

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As I creep ever closer, or glide right past whatever middle age is (always a rather presumptuous term, really) I find that my preconceived notions are wrong.

Allow me to explain: for whatever reason when I was a kid, probably based on observations somewhere, I assumed that when I hit a certain age I would somehow instantly start listening to classic rock (or much more unlikely, country music) forever. I mean that my taste in music would just get switched over to classic rock permanently, and without my input. This has not happened yet. I mean, I enjoy that stuff just fine, sure. (although I do have a problem with noticeably racist asshole or otherwise socially problematic artists that younger me was either ignorant of or oblivious to. Think Ted Nugent, etc.)

So really, that’s a positive thing. There’s just so much good music out there, I always wondered why people didn’t listen to a broad range of stuff. Life is just too short to stop growing and discovering there. Overall this preconception is one that I am happy is wrong.

I also assumed I would start wearing my shirts wide open to show off my copious chest hair, framing several gold chains. In hindsight it’s entirely possible that many of these notions were formed while watching Three’s Company as a child. This one I have also not started to do. Mostly due to my lack of chest hair.

However, there is one that I just didn’t see coming. I mean this honestly, I absolutely had no idea this was in me. It’s like I grew another head slowly over time and noticed it in the mirror one day. It’s not something that younger me would be necessarily embarrassed about, but I sure wouldn’t be proud. So, I will share it with you here since I am trying to write authentic and real words here as part of my new resolution (of sorts).

Realize this is very personal, and difficult to talk about.
It’s my biological imperative to find the groan-iest of “Dad puns” absolutely hysterical. I mean, really funny. I think that stuff is amazing. It’s my jam.

I have been wheezing, crying, trying to read something that is by many standards just so so bad. I realize this, by the way. I know deep inside that this stuff is comedy junk food. It’s hacky, tired, refried jokes that have been around in many forms for decades in some cases. But try as I might to reason with me, it’s just too compelling. I LOVE THIS CRAP.

Anyway, that was cathartic. Now that it’s out there, I can promote my newest favourite Twitter account: @DadsPuns

It’s basically catnip specifically designed for me. I love this guy/gal whatever. Amazing stuff, makes me laugh every damn day. Give them a follow.

And for fellow middle aged pun appreciators, you are not alone.

4 thoughts on “Middle Ages”

  1. Courtney, you’ve wandered onto a path that I have found myself treading lately. It’s confusing and alarming — but in a strangely delightful way. I, too, struggle with the concept of middle-agedness. First of all, there’s no way I’m middle aged!! The image of myself in my head tells me that my ass is still taut and my face features absolutely zero lines and spots. I look exactly the way I did when I was 20. My children have ruthlessly assured me that I am delusional. But reality is built on beliefs … they don’t have to make sense.

    Case in point: It would seem that, as children, you and I shared some of the exact same bizarre and misguided beliefs. I remember anticipating that when I turned 40 my music collection would suddenly be a tribute to Willie Nelson and Loretta Lynn. My parents listened to this stuff and they always looked like happy forty-somethings, at least they did from my perspective in the backseat of that giant green Parisienne Pontiac. I couldn’t have explained the precise process or told you why this metamorphosis occurred; I just believed wholeheartedly that it did.

    In my premonitions about my future self I swapped out the chest hair and gold chains for large, droopy boobs and a flowy muumuu. The origin of these notions appears to match yours: Three’s Company. This was my favourite show and I’m pretty sure I’d have no trouble recounting on command any of the 172 episodes (my favourite being ‘Up in the Air’ … Jack escorts Janet to a dull party; when Jack consumes a tranquilizer and alcohol he ends up wearing a plant on his head … it still makes me giggle). I thought eccentric and unique fashionista Mrs. Roper had inexplicable appeal, with her colourful, bobbly jewelry and those comfy day gowns. And most of the middle aged women I knew had breasts that resembled Snoopy’s snout, had it been run over by my dad’s Pontiac. I couldn’t have predicted that I would reach middle age and still be waiting for the magical day when my boobies would come in. Given these circumstances, it is unlikely that I will ever experience saggage.

    In addition, I thought I would be a master gardener and maker of preserves and that hanging wallpaper would become such an enjoyable task I would literally whistle (and listen to country music) while doing it. These and many other domestic skills have eluded me.

    Now, on to the actuality of my middle aged life. I do not excel at puns; however, Jason definitely kills at cringeworthy Dad jokes. Eyvi and a friend of his have been known to make bets on the number of bad jokes Jason will tell during dinner… he averages 4. My mind is blanking out but I’ll consult with Anna and get back to you; she seems to track our pathetic moments rather carefully.

    Instead, here it is, my secret shameful act of middle age: I laugh out loud at cat and dog videos. We’re not talking a brief snicker; it’s full-out, can’t breathe laughter. Sometimes I also utter spontaneous reactions. And the truth is, the whole thing is beyond my control. The site of a cat running face-first into a fridge door sends me into hysterics (I’ll save descriptions of my occasional bladder-related mishaps due to laughter or trampoline jumping for another 40-something story time). Anna often surreptitiously tapes me reacting to things and then uses my pitiful old lady moments in her snapchats (should that be plural?? I assume the next phase of life will find me adding a superfluous s to common words and names of stores). Sigh; I said it. And it was, indeed, painful to talk about. I have a laundry list of similar confessions:

    I keep a magnifying glass in the kitchen drawer and I use it to read labels.

    I watch horribly written/acted movies that are shown on the W network. Sometimes I record them.

    I make visible facial reactions and audible surprised/horrified sounds when I witness violent acts on television.

    I believe shoes should never cost more than $40.

    Unprovoked, I tell store clerks random things about my children. (I say “store clerks”).
    I call rap music “noise.”

    I cover my face with my arm if someone tries to take a picture of me. I talk about “developing” pictures.

    I wear a hat that my kids say makes me look like the pigeon lady in Home Alone.

    I talk to my dog … and I answer in a voice that I believe would be hers if she could talk.

    I wait until the store clerk announces the amount owed before I open my wallet (and then systematically rifle through each section searching for the required cards. I haven’t yet begun writing cheques or making everyone wait for me while I locate my coupons; that’s probably on the horizon). This one is inexcusable. I just can’t seem to get it together enough to avoid this truly annoying scenario (annoying for those in line behind me). Maybe it’s not even a middle aged thing; it could be an airhead Paula thing.

    I’m trying to embrace this age. It’s not easy. In many ways, I have become invisible, which is what seems to happen to women. But apparently I’m highly visible when I’m watching cats on Youtube!

  3. Oh my god I just have to share a story with you. Eyvi read these posts last night and his only comment was: “it’s ‘sight’, not ‘site.” Yes, and I explained that I know the difference and it must have autocorrected… Also I’m relieved that he knows this.

    He reminded me of a very embarrassing moment. This incident doesn’t really fall into the ‘shit people do at 40-something’ category. Many of my stories are Paula-specific lunacy.

    Several months ago I bought a plant at Safeway. I do not have a green thumb. Anything green is pretty much guaranteed a speedy death in our house. I have, however, been able to maintain several batches of bamboo. We have many tall glass jars containing bamboo stalks and I feel proud that I have not killed any of them.

    Given my success with bamboo, I reasoned that succulents would have a reasonable shot at survival in our house. So I bought a lovely little ‘chocolate soldier’ succulent. I placed it in low light and googled watering directions. I carefully tended my plant for about a month and it appeared to be thriving.

    One day I watered it in Eyvi’s presence. “What the f*&k are you doing?” he inquired. Then he proceeded to laugh so hard that, if he were my age, for sure he would have peed a little. It turns out that for three weeks I had been watering an artificial plant. I have no defence but, in my defence, it looks super-real. And it rests in a gravel-type bed instead of soil. Who would have known? I guess every single person other than me.

    Now when I do something stupid (so, almost every day) someone invariably says, “go water your fake plant, ya old kook.”

  4. You guessed it; I’m browsing your blog archive! I wanted to comment on your April 22, 2014 entry but apparently “comments are closed.” I think it’s safe to say normal people aren’t combing through and commenting on blogs written five years ago. But, as a podcast-listening-old-geek in training (I’ll comment on that one later…), I’m sure you can appreciate my modus operandi. I am on the path to becoming a different kind of old geek. I haven’t come up with a label yet but I: collect rotary phones (some work, but even those have been rendered useless since we cancelled our land line; now they exist purely for esthetics); have an actual adverse physical reaction to technology of any kind (and yes, the world is going to hell in a handbasket); eat bowls of steamed Brussel sprouts, cauliflower and broccoli as a snack; and collect unique and colourful buttons. I’m not sure what kind of old person I will become given all of these things. But I propose: A Freakin’ Awesome One!

    So, the ‘Parents Ruin Easter Egg Hunt’ piece made me laugh and reminded me of a ‘Charleswood in Motion’ incident. Charleswood is the name of our neighbourhood and Charleswood in Motion (or Chuck ‘N Mo, as it is affectionately known) is a weekend-long carnival complete with rides, games, a softball tournament and lots of junk food. The finale is the time-honoured ‘candy scramble’. Anna and Eyvi were pretty stoked when they heard that such a thing existed. Free candy covering a sizable section of a football field! And parents just stand there and let this occur! It all seemed too good to be true.
    Anna suggested that we take a bag to collect the candy but, being a novice at the art of the candy scramble, I harrumphed and proposed that she could try to hold on to a vestige of dignity and collect whatever she could stuff in her pockets and carry in her hands. This would still be a significant number of candies, I assured her. Also, I figured she was old enough to hear the truth: This candy is the cheap garbage variety and I’d be willing to give her ten bucks to buy better quality candy. I’d even spread it on the ground, if the thrill of the hunt is the thing that motivated her.

    We noticed a large crowd of children gathering twenty minutes before the event. I was surprised but we wandered over. I was even more surprised to hear a few parents coaching their children: Head over to this or that section because no one ever goes there; don’t waste your time on the gum, just go for the chips and chocolate; go behind a little one, they always miss the good stuff and they’re slow. I shit you not; these comments came out of the mouths of seemingly sane parents. One mom was particularly intense; it was like watching Mickey Goldman massage Rocky’s shoulders before facing Apollo in the ring. I was dumbfounded. And I hadn’t seen anything yet. Once the game commenced I watched in shock as parents screamed comments of encouragement and, in some cases, ridicule (“come on, hurry up! You only have a minute…”). Kids were dumping bags and shirts full of candy at their parents’ feet only to be sent back in for another round. I saw the intense mom grab some candy that happened to be in reach and throw it in her kid’s bag (and I know part of her understood the unethical nature of this act because she scanned the folks standing next to her before making the grab—a clear sign that she didn’t want to be known thereafter as the crazy mom who steals candy from children …). I can only imagine what might have transpired had the parents not been forced to remain on the sidelines.

    Later that week I saw the intense mom at Safeway. I considered ramming her cart and taking some of her food but I didn’t have the guts.

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