There is a time that I do adore,
Before the meeting and thinly veiled hate.
A twilight of ignorance, I'd describe,
That you can't recognize until it is too late.

I think that I feel like that about you.

"If I'd only known then..."I'd lie.
I only learn by experiencing.
"I'd have appreciated..." I'd pretend.
I only remember by suffering.

I really do feel like that about you.

Yesterday as I drove the streets of my town,
I felt you all around, in and on.
Everywhere I looked, everything I touched.
Bits of you sprinkled hither and yon.

I don't want to feel like that about you.

My thoughts are cloudy because of you.
I can barely get these words out of me.
I think you have this affect on others,
Though it's hard to imagine it's too this degree.

I can't help but feel like that about you.

I won't say I wish you'd never existed.
That's a level of selfishness I won't allow.
You have your purpose, I suppose.
Though it's clearly lost on me right now.

You make me feel like that about you.

Even now the bile rises,
My hands begin to clench and my skin to itch.
I truly despise you, you know.
Pollen, you powdery yellow bitch.

It's been a week since I've posted anything in here. Usually that means that I'm going to sit down to try to make myself write a post. Which typically leads to something that seems forced and half-assed. And today is no different.

With that said...

Read on!

As I was showering this morning - and singing Gordon Lightfoot's "If You Could Read My Mind" - I remembered an e-mail exchange I had last week with a friend from high school. She is in The Hague working on prosecuting war criminals. I am working on what could end up being the world's silliest novel. She is trying to make a war-torn country more habitable for it's people. And I just used the phrase "cock blocked" in chapter three.

If you knew us both in high school, none of this would come as any surprise to you. Still, I'm glad there is no reunion this year.

However, I did do something this morning that I was proud of...

I totally snubbed the "highlights" of Barry Bonds "historic" home run. I woke up early, so I was doing some reading while sort of listening for the NBA playoff highlights to come on. When the perfectly-coiffured talking head mentioned Bonds' name, I knew what was coming. I turned as far away from the TV as possible - which, if you know me, you'll agree is not something that happens frequently.

I felt strangely proud of my little one-dude protest.

Sure the steroids thing sucks. I've never actually personally seen him use them. And I won't bore you with some proverb (I think) involving "smoke" and/or "fire." But, come on...

However, I think an equally big reason for protesting Bonds is that he's been an unrepentant asshole his entire career.

Maybe I'm too Canadian. It just baffles me when people are absolute shits all of the time.

Not only am I Canadian. But, I'm east coast Canadian. More than that, I am smalltown east coast Canadian. That is like the perfect storm of niceness. (Before the comments pour in, yes, I have my moments of jackassery also.)

This leaves me ill-equipped to understand Barry Bonds and his fucknutsinicity.

I think that I'm very Canadian in other ways too.

(Segue, schmegue.)

People have asked me about moving to the US in the past. But, I really think that I'd cease being me. I'd be like Samson after he got a little off the top, or like David Caruso after "NYPD Blue," but before "CSI: Someplace or other."

I'm the guy that points out every single Canadian in every movie or TV show that I watch. Americans get sick of this quickly. "That waitress - the one with one line - she's from Vancouver!" Nevermind that I live many thousands of miles from Vancouver, and that the only things that tie us together are that we are both carbon-based life forms and we were both born north of some imaginary man-made line on a map, I somehow feel a kinship with this stranger.

It's like being Canadian makes them more likable to me.

I'd excuse almost any transgression if someone had a Canuck connection. "Attila the Hun? I think he has a great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandson in Oshawa. Ontario. His name is Gordie. Good people, those Huns."

I'm also the guy that thinks that Joni Mitchell's "Blue" is one of the twenty greatest albums of all time. And the guy who has had Leonard Cohen's "Suzanne" stuck in his head for days.

Can you keep a secret? When I was a baby and started teething, the only thing that could stop me from crying was the playing of Anne Murray records. Now THAT, my friends, is Canadian.

Still, despite my best efforts, I find myself feeling a bit bad for Barry Bonds. In spite of his rampant douche baggery, the guy is taking a lot of flack. I almost find it unfair. Damn my niceness! It really isn't easy being Canadian sometimes.

But, the fact that we are better-looking and better in the boudoir than everybody else really heals the pain.

You may remember my story about the day I spent with my 8 year old (9 now!) cousin. She is also the twerp responsible for an infamous series of sketches, including "Peter Pooping."*

Let's call her "the monkey."

Please don't confuse her with ACN (Adorably Cute Niece) or this dude.

This morning I stumbled upon an old journal that had been collecting dust on my bookshelf. It was given to me by a huge fan of the monkey, so that I could chronicle her many adventures.

And I did... for 6 or 7 months.

It began at Christmas 2000 and ended in August 2001. After that, her adventures became too numerous for one person to keep track of.

The following are excerpts from said book. She was 3 1/2 years old.

Dec. 25, 2000 - The monkey's daddy recently went in for a vasectomy. The monkey knows that she can't jump on him because he hurt his "Pecker, pecker, pecker. Bird, bird, bird."

Dec. 26 - The monkey's mommy tells the story of a recent day at daycare. The monkey is sent to time out over and over all day. Finally, they sent her for the last time and she starts sobbing. They ask her what is wrong and she replies, "I've been in trouble all day and I just can't take it anymore."

Dec. 26 - The monkey tells her daddy to "Take your big butt out of here," as he tries to share a chair with her.

Dec. 29 - The monkey tells us that it is time to get up because it is "Eight five three and two dots!" (8:53 on a digital clock.)

Early January 2001 - The monkey is looking at wedding pictures. "Oh, I LOVED the wedding. I was so good at the wedding. I'm cute right now."

Early January - A tow truck comes to pick up her uncle's van. She and I stand outside and watch. The monkey has many questions. "He is lifting the van... is he strong?" "Can I throw a snowball at him?" and "Is he going to take my sleigh?"

Early January - As I pull the monkey around in her sled, she sings Christina Aguilera's "What a Girl Wants."

Early January - The monkey listens to a Bill Cosby stand up routine. Bill makes sounds, she mimics. Bill laughs, she mimics. Bill says, "When I was a boy, I thought my father was an idiot." She looks at me and says, "Idiot? I thought MY father was an idiot."

Early January - The monkey passes me a skittle. I put it on her counter and tell her that I was afraid it would melt in my hand. She passes me a penny, so I put it in my pocket. She says, "Why are you putting it in your pocket, Peter? Money doesn't melt!"

Early January - The monkey gives me a blue cassette tape to give to my parents. Her instructions are, "If they like it, they can keep it. If they don't, then you can bring it back to me. The tape: Disney's Lullaby Classics.

January 23 - I'm sitting on the couch watching TV as the monkey strolls in. She crawls up on the couch, sits next to me, and puts her arm around me. She looks at me and says, "Peter, do you know how much I love you?" Then after a brief pause, she answers herself, "Fifty!"

Janury 25 - The monkey's mommy checks her answering machine this morning. There is a message from the monkey from the previous day. It was, "Hi Mommy. I'm at daycare. I learned my phone number today! Bye!"

January 31 - She refers to me as "Billy Bossy."

February 3 - With a mouthful of french toast, she tells me, "Peter, you are the precious boy in the world."

February 12 - The monkey got in trouble at daycare today. She got another "time-out." Her explanation was, "Chantal didn't want help, but I wanted to help her." Then a pause as she searches her memory, "I made a saucy face at Jacques."

February 13 - The monkey is mad at her father for saying that she is "no fun." "Daddy apologize. You are breaking my feelings."

March 3 - The monkey's grandmother is tucking her shirt in and pulling up her pants, to get her ready for daycare. The monkey is not happy. "No! They are going to call me Steven Urkel!"

April 1 - The monkey's daddy tells her that she has to go home at 8:15. So, at 8:14 she looks at the clock and then looks at me, "Peter, who can stop the clock?"

August 12 - The monkey is wearing a tiara, so someone asks her if she is a princess. She replies, "No, I'm not a pricess. I'm a princess to Peter."

August 12 - My dad tells the monkey that "If you eat your vegatables you'll get smart." She looks at his plate and then at him and says, "Okay... get smart."



[*Please note that she didn't see me or anyone else pooping.]

Since I am busy working on something else, I don't have time for a long post today. Instead, here is a picture of me when I was a wee little tyke. I am sitting on the steps of a courthouse, with my (late) RCMP officer uncle, drinking a beer. Welcome to Cape Breton.

I drank a lot of beer when I was a kid. Anytime someone put a bottle down with some left, I was all over it. And I'd get a bit belligerent if all I got was foam.

However, this picture does tell us two important things:

1) This was about the time I start transitioning to cute kid, from horribly ugly baby. Seriously. I thought about scanning a pic of that too, but I just don't want to look at it. Immediately after I was born, my Dad took one glance at me and asked if they could send me back.

2) It makes complete sense now why I don't remember large chunks of my childhood.

*burp*

Some random nuggets this morning...

- The other day my father asked me, "Is there an actor named "Shitley Killinger?" I replied, "I don't believe so." He thought for a minute and then said, "I think I may have really screwed up the People Magazine crossword puzzle."

- The word "balls" still makes me giggle. I know, I know. Maybe it is all words with "B," "A" and "L" in them. I dream of the day People Magazine has an article about "Bob Balaban in Islamabad."

- Ever since "Brokeback Mountain" came out, I've found it hilarious to reply to the question, "Have you seen it?" with "I did. You know, I think those two fellas may be more than just friends."

- I started writing a novel this morning.

- I sometimes like to bury the lead.

So, yeah, a novel.

My buddy Ignun and I were chatting about it yesterday and came to the conclusion, "Other dorks are doing it, why can't we?"

There is more to it than that. I've written a number of screenplays. I've written a kid's book. (For my niece!) I've written short fiction.

It's just time for a novel. I have been thinking about it for quite a while.

I don't want to give too much away, but the story is really coming together. It's going to be a little... different. But, if I can write the story that is forming in my head, I think it can be a lot of fun.

I read someplace that a 175 page novel is equal to around 50,000 words. Hell, I've written e-mails almost that long.

My first idea for the book was about a young boy who goes to a wizard school and has all kinds of wacky adventures. But, apparently this has already been done. Who knew?

Okay, back to it.

I've debated writing this post. Quite frankly, I don't feel like I have the writing skills to adequately express what I want to express. I'm not sure that I can do it anything close to justice. But, I'm going to try...

Today is my niece's birthday.

Five years ago, my sister was 25 weeks pregnant and here for a visit. Everything was cruising along normally. But, on the day she was leaving, she began feeling some discomfort in her stomache. It didn't seem like a huge deal.

She went to the hospital when she got home, and they initially told her that it was most likely a gall bladder issue. But, the doctor she saw didn't like the look of some of her numbers. He transferred her onto a bigger hospital in a bigger city. Thank God he did. There were two doctors on duty that day, the other one is notorious for trying to do everything himself and he would have been unlikely to transfer my sister. And this would be an entirely different kind of post.

The bigger hospital ran all their tests and my sister was diagnosed with HELPP syndrome. Don't worry if you haven't heard of it. Be thankful. It was the first time I had heard of it too. It is something that is allegedly rare, and usually occurs much later in pregnancies.

The amount of time that passed next is a bit sketchy in the fog of "Holy shit..." that is my memory of that period in time. But, before long they were giving my sister steroids for the baby's lungs. I really didn't know what that meant at the time. It wasn't long before I found out.

I hadn't even thought much about being an uncle yet. I realized it was going to happen, but my sister wasn't even showing at the time. I was excited in theory, but it was still seeming a bit hypothetical to me.

Suddenly I was thinking a lot about it. And it wasn't just the baby in danger, my sister's "numbers" were getting really bad.

My parents were rushing to the hospital. For reasons beyond my control at the time, I couldn't go.

I hadn't cried since I was nine years old. And even then they were tears of anger. My older cousin was beating me up. (Nothing serious.) I wasn't going to rat, but I wasn't big enough to do much about it.

But, I cried that day when I heard that the baby had to come out. It was such a foreign feeling. A strange, foggy sense of helplessness.

A lot of my initial thoughts were on my sister and her safety. We fought a lot as kids. More than you can imagine. My Dad recently told someone that he was sure that when we grew up that we'd never speak to each other. At some point that went away and we eventually got along fine. Though we are a small family - I only have the one sibling - we aren't at all touchy-feely. Not a lot of hugging. Not a lot of talk about anything remotely related to feelings. Granted, it is possible that everyone else was doing it and I just didn't know. But, on this afternoon I was paralyzed with fear about my sister's well-being. (To this day, we've never discussed this part either.)

As the day stretched on, the doctors kept a close eye on my sister's numbers. They were waiting for the best possible time that would provide as little risk to my sister as possible, and as much hope as possible for the baby.

I remember praying a lot. Praying and negotiating.

Then the call came from my Mom. I had a baby niece.

It hit me. Hard.

This little one was suddenly the most important person in the world.

This is where I really wish I was a better writer. It was a life-changing moment. I loved this little girl SO much and I hadn't even met her yet.

Reality started to sit in as my mother gave me more details. My niece weighed 1 lb, 6 ounces.

1 lb, 6 ounces.

Even now, the number staggers me.

Our little squirt was going to have a tough journey ahead of her, but she was here now.

My memory gets a little fuzzy here. I had a rough evening in here someplace. It involved much shortness of breath and many chest pains. It also involved me screaming like a lunatic at a nurse on the phone. "No one is answering!!!! Why is nobody calling me?!? There is nobody left in Cape Breton!! For the love of God, you HAVE to get someone there to talk to me." The nurse found my patheticness amusing and went to my sister's room and gave them all a much needed laugh by telling them what I said.

Now, I'm not sure if my breakdown was because I just hadn't had updates on how my sister and niece were doing the first night, or if it was because of what came next...

Three days after my niece was born, they discovered that she had a perferated bowel. And they were going to have to do emergency surgery.

The news was just so jarring to me.

How could this possibly happen after all she'd been through already? How could they operate on someone who weighed 1 lb, 6 ounces?

But, operate they did. And she fought through that. She ended up with an ostomy bag on her right side. (Something that was later reversed in yet another operation.)

After surgery she LOST weight. She was down to 1lb, 3 ounces.

This is one tough little squirt.

I remember clearly my first visit to see her in the hospital -- where she spent 3 months or so, working her way up to the 5 lb mark needed for her to go home. She was in her little incubator. SO tiny. Words can't even express. It is something that you literally need to see to believe. And even then, you can't wrap your mind around it.

She had all kinds of little tubes running everywhere. And I was in love.

I froze in my tracks when I stepped in front of the incubator. I was all scrubbed up and wearing a gown. I couldn't speak. Finally I managed to blurt out, "Hi. I'm Uncle Pete. I'll buy you a pony." My Dad cracked up next to me.

Only two people were allowed to go in and visit her at a time. The rest of my family quickly realized that I wasn't going anywhere, and they took turns being the other visitor. I just continued to stare at her.

I guess it was a couple months later - when she was a little over 3 lbs - that I first got to hold her. I was so afraid. She was so little. But, my sister put her in my arms. Even though weight-wise it felt like I was just holding a blanket, it was one of the greatest moments of my life. I didn't ever want to put her back down. Of course, I was so afraid to hurt her that I sat perfectly still and my arms were beginning to cramp. (I am smiling like an idiot typing about it even now.)

My sister spent most nights sleeping at the hospital at first. Her husband was working crazy shifts and then driving 2 hours to see his pride and joy at every possibile opportunity. My niece's parents were as strong and impressive as their little girl. (Something else I've never told them.)

When she was just a little bit under 5 lbs, my niece was allowed to go home. After only spending a night or two at home, my sister surprised me by bringing my baby niece to visit me. I couldn't have been more excited. I spent the first few hours of her visit, in a chair, holding the little punkin close to me. Again, just staring.

I also remember the first night my sister and husband went out to a social event. I stayed in with my niece. She was in her little crib dealie, with a fully pimped out monitor that kept an eye on everything but her taste in music, and I sat there for hours watching the display. If her heart beat sped up, so did mine. If it slowed... well mine sped up again. Even with this high-tech piece of equipment, I'd get up every ten minutes to go look to make sure she was still breathing. I did this by watching the blankets move, of course.

I'd like to say that in five years I've become a little less over-protective. I'd like to say that... But, the truth is that I'd throw someone down a flight of stairs for looking at her the wrong way. I'm not kidding.

I call my niece every single day at 6 pm. I don't care what is going on. Everything else gets put on hold. I don't care where she is or where I am. I call her every single day. I ask her if daycare was fun. I ask her if I'm a pain in the bum. (Always gets a "Yeeeah!!") We practice counting to ten. It is my favourite part of the day.

My niece has Cerebral Palsy. She can't walk. She can only say a few words. ("Unc" is one of them!) Little things that most people take for granted - like picking up a toy block - are so much work for her. And she really does work at it. She is still the toughest person I know. It is impossible to tell how much developing she'll do or how long it will take. But, she is smart. She is funny. She has the cutest little evil sense of humour. And we are the luckiest family in the world to have her.

My niece is five years old today. And I love her very much.

Labels: ACN

Hi. How are you?

Oh really? Good to hear.

You are looking well.

Wow. That's a little forward... but appreciated.


Here's the thing:

1) I'm exhausted. I've had a super busy few days - doing something I love - and need some downtime. I'm completely zonkered.

B) I'm a little bored with the straight prose-y stuff I've been writing here. I write it. You read it. You don't comment. (Bastards!) You fall in love with me. You begin to doubt your own relationships... and/or sexual orientation.

Today I am going to try something different. (If you just thought, "Write something interesting?" Get the hell out of here. We don't need your kind.)

Today I am taking a va-fake-tion. That's right. It has all the recuperative qualities of a vacation, but you don't need the time, money, or inclination to deal with people. Awesome, right?

One thing you do need for a va-fake-tion is a matter transporter. I haven't checked in a while, but I am relatively sure you can pick one up at WalMart. And you need a destination. I picked the Mayan Riviera. (Which is essentially the show-off's way to say "Cancun.")

(I was going to do a running diary of this, updating hourly. But, I am too tired for that kind of dedication. So, you get it all now.)

What I Did on My Va-fake-tion
By Peter DeWolf

7:00 am - I arrive at the local matter transporting station. (WalMart gave me a raincheck.)

7:03 am - I take my place in line behind a sweaty, sweaty man. I don't want to be mean, but he looks like he ate the Comic Book Guy on The Simpsons. He is singing along to T-Pain's "I'm in Love With a Stripper" on his iPod. Him paying for companionship... shocking.

7:04 am - I notice that his t-shirt says "insert irony here" on the front. I resist urge to say, "That t-shirt is stretched so tightly that we couldn't insert a fucking molecule there."

7:07 am - Don Henley tells me about an empty lake, empty streets and the sun going down alone on my iPod.

7:18 am - My turn to be transported.

7:18:12 am - Helloooooo Mexico.

7:19 am - Rough ride. Feels like my balls are up in my stomach.

7:20 am - They were. Sent back through matrix again.

7:22 am - They lost my luggage!

7:25 am - Buying Hawaiian shirt in gift shop. Wondering if I'd look like Magnum PI if I grew a moustache.

7:37 am - Eddie Vedder is on my iPod telling me not to call him "Daughter." Done.

8:00 am - 10: 00 am - Napping on beach.

10:04 am - Meet lovely chamber maid. She can't speak English. I can't speak Spanish. She is either propositioning me or trying to sell me the family donkey.

10:07 am - Yep. Definitely the donkey.

11:14 am - I drank the water.

11:25 am - I... can... see... through... time...

1:06 pm - Relatively sure I puked out spleen.

1:07 pm - Make note to look up purpose of spleen.

1:14 pm - Wondered why I can't pick one tense and stay with it.

2:30 pm - 4:57 pm - Napping on beach.

5:00 pm - Back at transporter station for ride home.

5:02 pm - It's mine and my donkey's turn. Hope that my balls don't end up in his stomach. Or vice versa.

5:02:32 pm - Eeeeeeeeeeeep.

==========

I told you I was tired.

[Most bloggers would admit this post was crap and delete it. But, that's not how I roll. You are seeing behind the curtain here, people. Be afraid...]

I still have no idea what that means. But, I giggled for about three days when I heard it.

Do guys have some kind of biological Swatch ticking away and I just wasn't informed?

I'm not THAT old. Michael Douglas is still having kids and he is older than my Dad. I'm even younger that Catherine Zeta-Jones Douglas Terwilliger, despite what she and her bio writers might try to tell you.

Maybe I should tell my Dad about this guy

Mine worker Les Colley (1898-1998), from the town of Ararat in western Victoria, made world headlines as the world's oldest father at age 93 yr. 10 mo., when his son Oswald was born in July 1992. "I never thought she would get pregnant so easy, but she bloody well did," he told the papers, discounting the possibility that perhaps HE had more to do with this miracle of fertilization. A non-drinker and non-smoker, he remained active up to the very end, succumbing to pneumonia four months shy of his 100th birthday.

Can you imagine old Les' pillow talk?

"Ride me like a model T."
"I haven't been this aroused since Lady Byrd Johnson and I shared a malted."
"I was too old to fight in WWII, but I can still make you surrender like the French."
"I should invent fire, that would make this more romantic."

And...

"Do you want me to fill your 'Great Depression'?"

I went too far with that last one, didn't I?

My point being that I can still have kids.

Maybe I just need to use another one of my Dad's quotes to sweet talk the ladies...

"There is nothing sexier than a woman driving a half-ton."

Seriously... what is with this dude and trucks?

If this is your first time visiting PDDC, let me catch you up...

I like watching TV.

There ya go.

That being said, it should come as no surprise that the words "season finale" cause me to be a little bit bummed. It's kind of like when you are 15 and the summer is ending. All the cute girl tourists and visitors from away are all leaving and going back to their lives. And you just know that you won't see another damn woman in this freakin' town for 8 more months and that it is going to be a BLEAK winter. Uhm, you know, hypothetically speaking.

Sure, you may luck out and get a decent show premiering in the summer. (I'm looking at you "Prison Break.") But, for the most part, you are going to be trying to console yourself with a new season of "Big Brother." That's not good for anybody.

And, let's face it, it's easier to find a skinny Baldwin brother than a good movie being released in the summer.

That pretty much means you are stuck with DVD renting. I was all set to finally get around to watching MARCH OF THE PENGUINS when someone told me there is a dead baby penguin in it. (Fine, I heard it on "Gilmore girls" last night.) Morgan Freeman or no, there is no way I am going to watch a baby penguin snuff film. Not happening.

I guess that leaves... books.

Now, I was a voracious reader as a child. In the 5th grade, I can remember reading all The Lords of the Ringses, The Hobbit and The Canterbury Tales. This was probably also when I first encountered the word "voracious." But, in the 7th grade, something funny happened on the way to being literate...

Students from a neighbouring town started coming to our junior high school. So we had double the number of girls in our classes. And with the exception of a brief post-college reading jag, I haven't been as into books since. (The 9.5 million filmmaking and screenwriting books don't count.)

But, I am about to change all of that...

Caprice Crane's "Stupid & Contagious" is in bookstores NOW.

If you aren't familiar with Caprice, you should pop over to her site now and roam around. Well, you could wait until you are done reading this.

You'll find a bio there, but my favourite description of her is, "She carries a picture of her old pick-up truck in her wallet and has an ass that would make a priest cry."

Pick-up truck. That's good stuff.

Publishers Weekly had this to say:

This funny duet pairs two New York City 20-something neighbors: Heaven Albright, whose reversal in fortunes transforms her from uber-PR exec to bumbling waitress, and Brady Gilbert, an aspiring music producer with problems navigating the bright lights of the big city. The story of their personal and professional travails unfolds in alternating chapters, appealingly narrated by zany Heaven and wry Brady. The two meet-cute downstairs at the deli, and even if the novel's arc is familiar (it's instantly obvious that Heaven and Brady's initial distaste for each other can never last), Crane's giddy, playful prose feels fresh. When Heaven inevitably gets fired from the restaurant, she joins Brady on a trip to Seattle, where he hopes for a face-to-face meeting with Starbucks founder Howard Schultz to pitch him an idea for Cinnamilk (the flavor left after you've eaten cinnamon cereal). The adventures that play out from New York to Seattle as the two pursue their idealistic dreams prove so much fun that a touch of predictability hardly matters. TV writer Crane heavily spices her debut with pop culture references from the '80s to the present day and keeps the story moving with snappy dialogue, a combo likely to entertain legions of (gum-popping) readers.

I haven't read it yet, but I still want to post my own pre-review. Let me see...

"Easily my most anticipated book of 2006. If you only read one book this year - and I likely will - make it Stupid & Contagious." - Peter Dewolf

I don't like feeling left out of things.

So, I just ordered my copy. You should too! What else are you going to do? Watch "Big Brother?" Come on...

Typically when faced with a difficult decision, I'll look at the pros and cons and decide which one outweighs the other. Then I'll give it the "gut test." Most of the time this yields one obvious-ish answer.

Most of the time.

Decisions in general are very difficult for some people - both before and after they are made.

I think it was Austrian writer Karl Kraus who said, "A weak man has doubts before a decision; a strong man has them afterwards."

It was either him or Daffy Duck. I sometimes get them confused.

My main problem this time is that I really don't like change. For real. The Amish are more open to it than I am.

I don't like Jennifer Lopez. I don't like the taste of liver. And I don't like change.

Especially not change for the sake of change.

But, at some point you have to wonder if your resistance to change is actually holding you back. Is sheer stubborness stopping you from achieving something that you can so easily have? I want to be a strong man, Karl Kraus. I really do.

You are probably wondering what has me so vexed. And if you are familiar with my writing, you'll know that I am not much for talking about anything personal. This is not easy for me to say...

I guess the best thing would be to just come out and say it...

I am wondering if it is time for me to get a new razor.

Whew.

I actually feel a little better now.

I currently use a Gillette Sensor Sport. I'm pretty sure they don't make the"Sport" anymore. I got it sometime in the early 90s. It is essentially an old school Gillette Sensor, but with some pretty blue paint on it. (Yes, I am that easily led to buy something.)

It only has two blades. Shocking, no?

I didn't even look at the Gillette Sensor 3 that came out years ago. What difference could one extra blade really make?

But, now I've seen the future, my friends. The future is...

The Gillette Sensor Fusion. (And not the crazy ass battery powered one.)

It has five blades on the front and one on the back for sideburn trimming and the like. Five!! And that trimming blade would come in handy since every time I shave, my sideburns creep down a little further. A week after a haircut I start looking like a 90210-era Luke Perry. You know, back when he was in his early 40s.

Plus, it is all pretty-like in blue and orange? It looks like an Edmonton Oilers jersey from the 1980s. (Yes, I'm still easily led.)

Now, the math may seem quite simple to you...

5 > 2

But, it's really not that easy.

My Sensor Sport and I have been through a lot together.

It laughed at me when I grew my "good luck" exam beard during my first year at university. Once the marks came back, I knew there would never be a second exam beard.

It helped me shape my ill-conceived attempt at a goatee in the mid-90s. A phase that lasted two days. While I did look kind of bad-ass, I felt a little like Evil Spock.

Sensor Sport has been with me through every up and down for the last 15+ years. There is a history there, people.

While I'm a loyal guy, I can't help but wonder how much closer three extra blades would shave. And would I be able to go longer between shaves? Because, let's face it, that alone is one hell of a selling point.

I think that ultimately I will get a new Gillette Fusion. I'll let my Sensor Sport retire. (Possibly to Boca.) But, it'll be a bittersweet moment for me. The end of an era.

But, Karl Kraus says that will make me a strong man. And when has a German-speaking Austrian ever led people astray before?