I just caught a little back and forth on the CBC with a Canadian meteorologist. He said across Ontario, July is four degrees (Celsius!) cooler than normal. He also said Nunavut has been warmer, on average, than Toronto lately.
You know Nunavut. On most maps, it’s the perma-white band of northern Canada, next door to Greenland. They recorded three centimeters of snow there over the past 24 hours.
“In B.C., they’ve had too much summer, in the Prairies there are places that haven’t had enough summer, and here we haven’t had any,” said Environment Canada senior climatologist David Phillips, from his Toronto office.
WRONG < – Click ME
What is going on with the Summer? When I was up north visiting my Parents this weekend I found it to be tolerably humid and nice, instead of the constantly cool and easy to cold and crappy that is prevalent here in London. So what’s up with the weather?
Ever since I signed up for daddyhood, I can’t stomach these sorts of stories. I can’t read things like that without imagining my own son or daughter as the victim. I’m going to have to go hug something.
“All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.”
It seems that almost every one of my male friends who become Dads also become Mothers. They cease to hold onto the essential Maleness of their lives and start being fretful hens who “get all concerned” when something happens to a kid somewhere (anywhere) in the world. This may go a long way to explaining the lack of violent kid death in movies and video games. I’m probably a hypocrite on this matter myself, as the Parent who brushes hair and checks clothing before my own goes out the door (but I believe strongly that I am motivated by necessity and not nascent ovaries).
When did it become “okay” for Dad’s to stop being “Fatherly” and start wearing the proverbial June Cleavers around the house? These aren’t even Single Dads or Stay-at-home Dads; I’m talking about Dad’s who are out of the house for eight hours a day, drink beer, watch Nascar and Fret Fearfully when little Portia skins her ‘wittle‘ knees while playing on television in another state 20 years ago. The kind of Dad who knows how to unstop a drain without Draino and knows what a Ubend is for. Why is he crying on the Internet about some tragic horror in a world of Tragic Horror?
It’s not like I expect Fathers to be the Violent Misanthropes we’ve been trained by Television and Movies to think they were or even Wise Patricians like Heathcliff Huxtable or Atticus Finch; just something more masculine than “The Fresh Prince” (circa 1991). No crying Jags in public and no fretting like hens over other people’s kids. It’s okay to worry in private, sensible people don’t need you to shred your shirt every time someone’s kid gets a boo-boo, even a fatal one.
There are many unfortunates out there who have been “cutting the ends of the brisket off”1 for so long that they never asked why.
1 This refers to an old story where a new bride asks why her husband always cut the ends off brisket before cooking. The husband says that his family has always done it this way. Eventually the bride asks her mother in law why, and her mother-in-law says that her mother always did it that way, so she kept up the tradition. So, the confused young bride goes to the hospital bed of her Grandma-in-law and asks, Grandma, why do you cut the ends off of the brisket? To which the Grandma replies, ”The pan was always a little too small”