Today, my oldest son Zach – mister rock star himself – turns twenty-two. In honour of this special occasion, I would like to list twenty-two reasons why I think he’s awesome. I could come up with so many more, but these are just the first ones I can list off the top of my head…
First and foremost, he looks like a lion. And I love cats, so there you go. I meant to do that when I gave birth to him.
He has great hair, kind of like if Bob Marley and Lenny Kravitz had a baby.
He can do an impressive Australian accent.
And a Jamaican accent.
And a not-bad, but possibly not completely convincing, English accent.
He owns a pair of “these look like they belong to the Devil” boots, and he wears them well.
“What exactly does that mean?” I ask. I figure that since WE are Canadian, we might fall into that category as well.
“Really nice. Too nice. Family and community-oriented. Not hard-core enough. Pathetic at times.”
“Is that how you see yourself?” I’m wondering. It seems like a reasonable question to ask.
“That’s another thing – Canadians care.” It’s my daughter talking. “They want to know how people ‘feel’ about things. And you’ve just proven my point. Sometimes, you just shouldn’t give a shit. See, when I said, ‘Canadians can be kind of pathetic,’ you should’ve just shrugged your shoulders and gone and watched five episodes of Strike Back, picking food out of your teeth with a knife, and farting loudly every now and again.”
“Your father DOES watch that dumb show, and he farts loudly sometimes, but who would be stupid enough to pick food out of their teeth with a knife? If the fact that I care about things, makes me ‘super’ Canadian, than I guess I am. You are too, except when it comes to cleaning up after yourself,” I laugh.
“Ha, ha, ha. You’re funny – not.” My daughter walks out of the room, leaving a banana peel on the counter.
“Hey, I’m not your maid,” I say, picking it up and putting it in the compost bin. Things like that don’t go in the garbage. What? I’m trying to save the planet in every small way I can.
One things for sure, up here in the “Great White North”, we are nothing like Rihanna in her music video “Pour It Up”. I don’t even think Drake or Justin Bieber would go that far. Robin Thicke might, but he’s an anomaly.
Truly Canadian piece of advice: money will never be that important.
In the very early years of my marriage – when I was young and naive, and just barely old enough to vote – I believed that having a perfect life meant having everything and everyone in its place. I thought it meant never arguing with my husband, and having clean and well-behaved children.
I thought it meant having back-to-back good hair days, and flowers on the table, and finding the right pair of jeans, and making a supper that everyone loved, and getting an A+ on an essay that I’d written, and birthing a ten-and-a-half pound baby without getting any stretch marks (like that was ever going to happen), and having a totally blemish-free complexion, and, and, and…
Before you get your feathers all in a “don’t be mean to Steve Perry, he’s a good guy” flap, I don’t really hate him. But right now, if I hear his song Don’t Stop Believin’ even one more time, I’m going to take something very sharp out of the cutlery drawer and slice through someone’s shirt (not my own) just enough that they get the idea that I’m losing my frickin’ mind.
The problem: Zach a.k.a. Roary Raynor a.k.a. Mr. Rockstar (as I like to affectionately call him)…
(NOTE: For those of you new to my blog, my oldest son is the lead singer in a band. His goal in life is to be a musician – a money-making musician (there IS a difference) – and as his mother, I will do whatever it takes to support him. My husband, on the other hand, says that he has until he finishes school to pursue his dream and mooch off of us, and then it’ll be time for him to get a real job. Dads are always so tough. I guess, we’ll see what happens. He has one year left.)
The other day, I heard about Cory Monteith’s death. They said it happened because he did heroin and then drank alcohol, or because he drank alcohol and then did heroin – either way, it’s a lethal mix. Sad story, for sure. I still don’t like Glee.
Then I thought, Cory Monteith – Cory, Cory, Corey – like Corey Hart? Both Canadian. And no, we don’t all name our kids that here in Canada. At least, I didn’t. I did know a Cory/Corey once back in high school though.
Anyway, thinking of Corey Hart made me wonder about that damn sunglasses’ song. I’ve never quite been able to figure it out.
So I called Corey up – Corey Hart, not Cory Monteith obviously – and I asked him. He’s not famous anymore. I knew he’d take a random call.
We didn’t chat for long. I got right to the point. “I get the beginning of the sunglasses’ song, Corey – ‘I wear my sunglasses at night, so I can, so I can watch you even breathe your story lies’…or whatever. It’s just the rest of it that sounds fucked up to me. Can you sing it again, and this time, make the words more clear?”
Canadians are obliging, so he did.
“Ahhh, I get it now,” I replied, feeling much better. I then went on to make dinner untormented for the first time in over twenty-five years.
End of story.
NOTE: For any person who actually thinks I called Corey Hart to ask him such a silly question, thereby insulting him and making light of his entire music career – and there WILL be a few of you (Donna) – well, I didn’t. It’s a joke. Lighten up.
He can do an impressive Australian accent.
