Fun little story time. The original story can be found here – https://theinvolvedhusband.com/2023/11/28/the-challenge/ – but I’ll summarize with an update. Back in 2021, my friend Scott McWalter posted one of those harmless-looking, bucket list / life goals questions on social media. You know the kind — the ones that sneak up on you and make you take inventory of your creative life. I replied honestly. I had written:
magazine articles
short stories
stories that became radio dramas
stories being looked at for short films
how-to articles
product reviews
news articles…and on and on.
But there was one thing missing.I had never written a song.
Scott, being Scott, didn’t let that sit. He gave me an arbitrary but very real deadline — January 1st, 2022 — and challenged me to write one. At the time, it felt like a fun creative dare. Something to try, maybe fail at, and then move on. That little challenge turned into a song called “Country Cause of You.” That song was recorded by Rick Stavely and the incredible Tabor Creek band. Even wilder? It cracked the Top Ten on the Canadian Indie Country Countdown. Yeah. That happened. I still have moments where I shake my head at how a casual comment turned into something very real, very public, and very meaningful. It reminded me that sometimes we don’t avoid things because we can’t do them — we avoid them because we’ve simply never tried. Which brings me to why I’m writing this post. A New Chapter for The Involved Husband. Going forward, I’ll be sharing songs here — songs I’ve written, songs I’ve produced, and projects I’m involved in from the songwriting side of my creative life. This doesn’t replace the heart of The Involved Husband. If anything, it expands it. Being involved isn’t just about marriage, parenting, or showing up at home — it’s about saying yes to growth, creativity, and the unexpected paths that open up when someone challenges you to try something new. Sometimes that looks like learning how to better support your family. Sometimes it looks like writing a country song you never planned on writing — and watching it take on a life of its own. I have started a YouTube channel to collect some of these productions. “My Dog Bit Santa on the A$$ is the first one I’ve uploaded. I hope you enjoy, thanks for being here. More music coming soon.
Anyone who has been married or in a relationship for a long time will know what support is. When your spouse is trying something new it’s your duty to get behind them and help in any way possible. You may not agree with their decision or even believe it will work but if their mind is made up you need to support and back them 100%. For me these little plans usually come and go, like that time she decided we were going to use scent free laundry soap, or start a cardboard recycling program to help save the world – you betcha girl, I’m with you to the end. So imagine my trepidation when she included me in “our” new years resolution to improve physical fitness. It actually sounded simple enough at first. We were already eating pretty well so all I had to do was join her doing something called “planking”. Nothing to it, I’m with you sweetheart, sunshine, oh light of my life! I don’t know what a plank is but I see boards just lay there, I can do that! For those that don’t know, a plank is basically a pushup without moving. After she explained it to me I figured this had to be the silliest, easiest exercise known to mankind. “You mean, I get in a push up position and then don’t actually do any pushups?” I was incredulous. The world record for holding a plank is 8 hours; she suggested we start with 30 seconds. I scoffed. I shouldn’t have. I confidently got down on the floor while she got the timer set, dreams of my new rock hard abs dancing through my head. She said “ok, GO!” And I lifted myself up, making sure my back was square, and I waited , wondering why the world record was only 5 hours for this. After some time passed I noticed that my stomach muscles were complaining a bit and wait – did my arm just shake slightly? Hmmm, pay attention… yep there it is again, more pronounced – my arms definitely have started to shake. “How much time?” I asked, starting to doubt my original estimate of an hour duration for my first ever plank. “20 seconds to go” she said. WHAT? That can’t be right, I have to get that timer checked. I can’t possibly have only been doing this for ten seconds? My stomach muscles are really starting to let me know that something is wrong. They have gotten used to being relaxed in a sitting position, covered by the cushy layer of warmth I have developed over the years. My stomach muscles are spoiled to be honest. I didn’t treat my children as well as I treat them. As my wife called out “10 seconds!” I realized that if I was to continue my analogy comparing my stomach muscles to my children then I am now entering the realm of child abuse. The discomfort turned to pain and I noticed that my arms were not the only thing shaking now. Shoulders and legs also shook like the paint mixer at a hardware store while my stomach started a full revolt, threatening to just collapse and leave me in a heap on the floor. “Keep your back straight, you’re slouching, five more seconds!” she barked. She was no longer the sunshine of my life. At this point I was convinced that she was pure evil, the root of everything that is pain in this world. I’m also pretty sure she was laughing at me. As my wife and personal trainer counted down from five I glanced down, half expecting to see a pool of feces on the floor. Or at least a pool of blood. I actually would not have been surprised if I had found myself face to face with a small alien head as it ripped himself out of my stomach like the movie “Alien”. “FOUR!” She called out as I envisioned the alien climbing free of my innards. “As seen on TV!” Crossed through my mind and I started to giggle. “THREE!” the countdown continued and the giggles increased, apparently the pain has made me delusional. “Hi little guy!” I imagined I’d say to my new friend as he peered out of my intestines. I’m laughing harder now. This chuckling did not match up well with the shaking the rest of my body was already doing and it occurred to me that this whole fitness thing was a terrible idea. I have now decided that I would rather actually walk a plank at knife point than do these planks any longer. “TWO!” I’ve really got to check that timer, either that or she is just messing with me now. There is no way time is passing this slowly. Kind of a mean thing to do for someone that supposedly loves me. I also realized at this time that I wasn’t breathing. In fact I don’t even remember the last time I had taken a breath. Have I been holding it this entire time? Shouldn’t I be dead? “ONE!” She continued the painfully slow countdown and I started to do the math on when I could quit and not be considered cheating. Acceleration is 9.8 meters per second squared so if I dropped now I should be down about the time she says stop. How long are my arms, how far to the floor? Should I allow for air resistance? So many questions but I decided I was close enough to let myself go, anticipating the sweet relief of giving in to gravity. As she shouted out “DONE!!” I was already about halfway to the floor and I realized two things: 1 – my math was dead on, and 2 – my arms no longer worked as expected, meaning my face was about to be the first thing to meet the relief of the floor. As I laid in a sobbing, laughing, sweating, heaving pool on the floor I did an assessment to see if I had a bleeding nose. Apparently the human nose is not designed to stop the body from a free fall, which is pretty poor engineering I would say. I did not dare look down further to see if there were any other fluids leaking onto the carpet. This was her idea, she can have cleanup duties – I’ll let her figure out which towels to use for this mess too. Hour later, after the stomach pains subsided and I regained the use of my arms, I stood in front of the mirror (which showed absolutely zero improvement I might add) and quietly considered moving to Tibet. However I am not a quitter! (or I am not allowed to quit, thats kinda the same thing isn’t it?) With the same resolve that allows a woman to have another child after enduring the pain of child birth I too decided I can press on. I mean, I am only 7 hours, 59 minutes and 30 seconds off of the record, right?
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I work with dogs for a living. A lot of dogs. Usually in the range of 100 per week. I spend an inordinate amount of time together in large groups and it’s really fun to watch the socialization of the group as they pick out friends and learn how to play together. I once read a study that compared dogs social skills and learning ability to that of a toddler and as such I have worked hard to treat them accordingly. I have also had great success with training and behavior control when treating the dogs more like children, setting boundaries and working within their level of understanding as opposed to trying to simply make them obey. My spouse on the other hand, is a teacher and has spent many wonderful years in the elementary school system helping shape the young minds of tomorrow. One evening I was talking about one of the silly things I had said to a dog and she exclaimed “I’ve said that to my students too!”. This of course has lead to several very entertaining chats on the similarities between young children in class and our dog groups out on a hike. Some expressions that we use are direct crossovers and their meanings leave very little room for doubt as to what’s happening. “Did you just pee?” Is a question that can be directed at either a child or a dog at any time, with obvious meaning. “Whats in your mouth?” And “Dont eat that!” are outbursts that are closely related to each other and are often used in conjunction. It is however considered slightly more acceptable to physically pry something out of a dogs mouth as opposed to a child’s mouth. Some of the less common sayings we discovered an overlap of between teaching and dog handling can sound a little strange when heard out of context. These include things like: “Let her have it, there are enough sticks for everyone.” When either group is in the forest, someone will invariably determine that one stick is the SUPREME stick and it must be defended at all costs, up to and including a physical altercation. Trying to convince someone that a lesser stick is equally attractive is usually a futile battle. Sibling rivalries is a noteworthy but expected dynamic with both children and dogs. The fact that we have both used the phrase “Stop eating your sister” come as more of a suprise. “Are your ears just for decoration?” or any other phrase to denote the lack of listening ability is also very common between both groups that we interact with. Of course there will always be a rebel who holds up the entire class: “Ok everybody has to wait. We can’t go until Stanley joins the group.” More often than anyone would care to admit, we all know who “Stanley” is going to be on any given adventure. We can tell. “Get in the van” and “get on the bus” are virtually interchangeable along with “I hope everyone went pee before we left”. Whether it’s a dogs wilderness adventure or a child’s school field trip, someone always has to pee five minutes into the journey. As we head off for our days adventure we can’t help but notice that some parents of either children or dogs have over packed, with lunches perfectly measured out and tagged with the students or dogs names. They often send extra treats as well, with some sending enough “for the whole class”. Other parents might send a used plastic bag full of unrecognizable food, with the top knotted shut. We both keep extra food on hand for those who are sent without. Both my teacher spouse and myself have to deal with multiple pupils with he same name. She has several ways of dealing with this, including approved nicknames or perhaps using a middle name to differentiate the students. With dogs we have the luxury of just referring to a physical trait tied to their name. For example, we may refer to “Brown Callie” versus “Spotted Callie” with my dogs. This is not a socially acceptable way for her to refer to children. On a more serious note, there is also a very strong overlap found in the effects of their home life on their daily behavior. If there’s a major change at home, we know. Breakups, new relations, new baby, a serious illness – every teacher knows when something has changed in the homelife of a student. We do too. A dogs behavior can change drastically if their schedule/routine/circle of people changes. I can see a dog acting out or behaving out of character and have a pretty good idea when there is some kind of conflict or major change in their life. Like children, dogs can really wear their heart on their sleeve. One final point that isn’t talked about a lot but is worth noting to anyone considering a career in either elementary school teaching or dog handling: You will deal with more poop than you ever imagined. I promise.
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Jon had been standing on the bridge for hours, long since watching the sun go down. Rush hour traffic had faded and the world was getting quieter. Jon reflected on the many wrong turns he had made in his life, all leading to this moment. Failed marriage, failed career, failing health – it seemed to Jon that he couldn’t really do anything right. Looking down towards the water he sighed heavily. He turned and slowly trudged towards home where nothing awaited him except for the beer that would help him “sleep” – just like last night and the night before.
Approaching the end of the bridge he paused, an unusual sound drawing his attention. Listening closely he heard it again. A tiny yip coming from the long grass growing where the bridge span made its return to earth. Jon climbed down off of the walkway. The cardboard box was wet and damaged, laying partly in the water, duct tape holding it closed. Jon could see the box moving as the yipping continued.
Without further pause, Jon tore the box open to find two cloudy brown eyes surrounded by soft golden-red fur peering up at him. Their gaze locked before the puppies mouth opened and a raucous set of tiny yips and barks spewed forth. Wrapping the young dog in his coat, Jon headed for home with the soft squeaks of the now happy puppy cheering him on. The next morning, Jon called the local shelter.
“I don’t know where it came from, I found it under the 15th St. bridge” Jon explained. “I would guess its about 6 months old? I’m not a real dog guy so I’m not sure.” Jon paused before adding, “I can’t keep it, sorry. I can barely look after myself.” Jon said the last part with a chuckle although he really wasn’t joking. “Sure I can drop him off in an hour, thank you.”
Jon opened the basement door and his new friend awkwardly bounded up the stairs to greet him. Jon didn’t know much about dogs but he knew one thing – this one never quit barking. At least not until now. The puppy looked up at Jon and tentatively wagged it’s tail, like that was enough to make up for it’s all night vocal barrage.
“Come on dude,” Jon sighed “let’s get you out of here”
The shelter had a few forms for Jon to fill out and he reiterated that he knew nothing about the sad little canine. From the kennel Jon could hear the now familiar barking start up again; He wouldn’t miss that sound. Paperwork complete, Jon walked out to the street, thankful for the quiet brought on by the closing door. Life was back to normal. At least normal for Jon. He took a deep breath and headed down the dusty grey sidewalk. Days continued to pass, the boredom in Jon’s life unflinching and his health continued paying the price. Each day blurred into the next as he simply existed, not really living but surviving.
It was another unremarkable evening when Jon’s phone rang. He chose to ignore it, letting it instead go straight to message.
“Hi Jon, this is Kathy from the shelter. I’m just calling to let you know that the dog you brought in is going to be put down tomorrow. He is just too damaged to rehome. He has had infections and he is almost completely blind. His anxiety has him barking non-stop. So sorry Jon, I just thought you should know.”
That’s what the message was at least, but Jon never heard it. He hit delete before it even played. Jon grabbed a beer and turned back to the TV.
The sense of someone beside him caused Jon to awake with a start. There was something beeping beside him as well. And why was it so bright? Confused, he tried to sit up and felt a hand on his arm.
“Easy there fella, you’re ok. We gotcha.”
Now awake Jon realized that he was in a hospital bed. Monitor lines ran to his body and a nurse stood by his side.
“Whats going on?” Jon asked weakly.
“You’ve had a small heart attack,” said the nurse, “you’re lucky to still be with us. Your dog saved the day for sure!”
“My dog?” Jon’s brow furrowed.
“Yes, he was on your porch barking his head off. Your neighbor went over because of the noise and saw you lying on the floor though the window.”
“But… I don’t have…”
Jon was cut off by the door opening. A stranger in a brown uniform poked his head around the corner and looked at the nurse.
“Is he OK to come in now? He won’t shut up!”
The nurse laughed, “Sure, we are stable here, come on in.”
Before the stranger had time to answer they all heard a yell from down the hall. “Grab him!!” Jon instantly recognized the yipping as it grew louder, approaching down the hallway at a very high rate of speed. The door burst open and the barking dog bounced clumsily off of the door frame before launching himself onto the bed, instantly licking Jon’s face, his whole furry body wriggling and shaking. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Jon started laughing. The wiggling, wagging and licking machine didn’t let up. The Dog handler breathlessly arrived at the door.
“I’m so sorry, he slipped right out of his collar!”
The nurse smiled. “It’s fine, he just had someone he wanted to see.”
The dog handler interrupted, “We just got a call from the shelter, this guy escaped from there last night. I’m sorry sir, we just assumed he was yours, he’s been waiting to see you all night. We will get him out of your hair”
Leash in hand, brown hat took a step towards the bed.
“Not a chance!” Jon said, “he is mine. He knows it. I just didn’t know it.” Jon smiled and scrubbed the dogs head.
“How you been buddy? Good to see you.” Jon paused, “I hear that I owe you one.” For the first time in a long time the barking had stopped. A wet tongue gave Jon’s face another lick.
It’s product review time again! Faithful readers will know that every now and then a product comes by that deserves some extra attention – and I am just the guy to give it. So without further adieu, let’s talk paper towel… Recently I was wandering through my favourite grocery store and on my list, right between sour cream and celery, was PAPER TOWEL. I always cringe a little because paper towel math is very similar to toilet paper math. Single roll, double roll, triple roll, half sheets, full sheets, 4 pack or 6 pack… We’ve all been there, scientific calculator in hand, trying to figure out the best deal. Some quick algebra and crudely sketched graphs and I was down to two choices. One of those choices was in a nice green package and claimed to be “sustainable” and something about eco blah blah. Now I’m not against forestry but honestly our forest management could use a little help so if I can have one tree directed to a much needed $12.00 two-by-four instead of being wasted sopping up my coffee from the Kuerig I forgot to put a cup under, then why not? Curious what “tree free” paper was I did a quick read on the package and discovered that this amazing product was made from BAMBOO. And not just any bamboo, but the SOFTEST, MOST ABSORBANT bamboo on the planet. Intrigued I decided to try it. I took their word on the sustainability part – I do not know if the bamboo was stolen from a Panda family or not. Perhaps I was using a baby Pandas last meal as a soak pad for bacon grease? Unfortunately I do not have that kind of information. I also do not know the carbon footprint of shipping bamboo halfway around the world instead of using local trees. I also do not know the human rights issues that may or may not be involved with the harvesting of said Bambo. Hmmm – a lot to think about for simple paper towel, but it was cheap so… Best to stick with imagining that I am saving the planet. Upon opening the package I noticed that it was significantly umm – let’s say “crunchier” than normal paper towel. The package claims “the softest paper products in the world” and while i didnt do a scientific experiment with peer reviewing, I will stand by my assertation that I’ve felt softer. In fact I’m pretty sure I’ve felt softer 120 grit sandpaper. Alas I am trying to clean a counter top not do bodywork on a car. (At this moment I made a mental note to NEVER try bamboo toilet paper should the opportunity ever arise.) Fast forward a couple of days and, with my incredible purchasing decision a distant memory, I walked into the house and noticed a smell. Now when I say “smell” I mean a noxious odor of indescribable horror. A full on olfactory assault of apocalyptic proportion. And when I say “notice” I mean it was like the preceeding scent was applied to my nose with a high speed shovel. One of the dogs had apparently eaten something that didn’t quite agree with her intestines. Also apparently, whatever she ate came out as demon infused chocolate tapioca pudding mixed with mud water – and it came out from the opposite end that it went in. (It came out the end that doesn’t have teeth in case you didn’t follow me there). I wasn’t sure if I needed doggie pepto bismal or a K9 exorcism, but neither was available at this moment so through clenched teeth and watering eyes I held my breath and sent the somewhat forlorn looking offender outside. Now I don’t want to be too graphic but the above mentioned chocolate tapioca was EVERYWHERE. Including a delightful spray up the wall. I did note that the spatter pattern would make for interesting abstract art – which added to my thoughts of cutting out the drywall and starting over. A coat of varathane and I could sell it at an art auction perhaps. I’d need a catchy title though, and unfortunately “The Last Supper” and “The Scream”, while both very fitting names, have already been taken by some other artists. Anyway, back to the product review. I hurriedly grabbed my new paper towel, never having thought that it’s first usage would be a full blown, five alarm emergency situation. I quickly unraveled a few sheets and pulled at the perforation and… nothing happened. I regripped and tugged again and the bamboo paper-replacement finally ripped… LENGTHWISE. I now had two strips of this eco-friendly science experiment hanging from the roll mocking me. I gave up on that particular perforation and spooled down a couple more sheets, starting my rip carefully now at the edge of the line that was, by all accounts, put there for the very purpose of ripping. A ragged line formed, tearing quite literally everywhere EXCEPT on the perforation. Apparently the perforation guy didn’t understand the assignment. By this point the smell was permeating my eye sockets and I was pretty sure I could taste the K9 chocolate tapioca so a smooth tear was now very low on my priority list anyway. I bundled up the mass I had been able to set free from the main roll and applied it to the brown soupy mess at my feet and… nothing. It soaked up nothing. Apparently bamboo is not absorbant? In horror I began to move the bundle in a circular motion, smearing an amazing pattern of liquid brown goo around while actually soaking up very little. Now in full blown panic I started spooling off paper like a blue marlin taking line on a deep sea fishing charter. I emptied the whole roll across the floor two and three layers deep like a new carpet – anything to block the smell. The empty spool fell to the floor as I unloaded roll #2 onto the mess at my feet. Dizzy from holding my breath, I have now left it that way in the hopes that a wandering Panda will smell the bamboo and come to help clean up. Either that or when it dries I can just paint over it and call it good. I suspect it should dry pretty solid and might even take a good coat of wax. I will need to change the couch cushions to match the colour however that rule of three goes on home decor. I do have to wonder what exactly the purpose is of paper towel that is not made from paper, doesn’t tear and also doesn’t soak up the spills is actually for? The only thing it did right is hold its shape in the non-environmentally friendly plastic wrapper and look like paper towel long enough to trick me out of $5.49. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a shower.
Everyone I know enjoys that quiet time at the end of the day when you get to relax. You know the time – a long work day is done, dinner is done, chores are done and you get to curl up in bed with your spouse and watch a movie or your favourite series on TV. So relaxing! I was enjoying just such an evening when one tiny error changed my life. You see, I forgot to shut the closet light off. Normally not a big deal, except – the closet light caught my face just right and my charming wife noticed that I had a long eyebrow hair that was a little rogue. She sat bolt upright and said she had tweezers handy and would (I quote) “just pop it out quick”. In hindsight I now realize that the look on her face upon spotting this renegade hair was the same look of excitement a wolf gets when it spots a defenseless bunny casually eating a dandelion – and, like the bunny, I was oblivious to the horror about to befall me. Naively I thought “sure why not” after all she plucks them on herself all of the time and I’ve seen her do it without even flinching. At this point I really believed that she was being helpful. It turns out that she was actually plotting a form of medieval torture – and she had the audacity to look me straight in the eye with a smile when she said I would hardly feel it. I laid back and closed my eyes while she leaned in with her dainty little tweezers and grabbed a hold of this hair that somehow had pissed her off. She gave a quick little trial tug and I started to have doubts: not only did the hair not come out, but it was far from “hardly noticeable”. In fact it kinda hurt, but I wasn’t going to let her know. I cracked open one eye slightly to peek and watched in growing concern as she pushed her sleeves up and leaned in again, now wielding the tweezers with a white knuckle grip and a crazed look of evil glee in her eye – I began to worry more. She took hold of this sad, innocent hair again and said “ok, on three – one, two…” and yanked! On two!! I opened my mouth to tell her that she cheated but before I could speak the burn set in. Now, when I say “burn” what I mean is it kind of felt like she had hit me in the face with a shovel. Since my mouth was already open to call her out on her cheating, there was nothing to get in the way of the scream that followed. While the neighbors were undoubtedly locking their doors and preparing to call 911 to report the bloodcurdling cry, I panicked and clamped my hand over my eye, assumedly to stem the flow of blood. I quickly looked to see if she had ripped my entire brow off of my face or only half of it – but no, the tweezers were clean. Expecting to see blood sprayed across her face I glanced at her next, her lip curled back maniacally shouting “I got it!” with a purely evil Dr Frankenstein expression. At least I think she said “I got it” – she may have said “It’s Alive!!” I honestly expected to hear lightning and thunder outside of the laboratory…err, house. It is at this time I realized that the particular hair she was so angry with must have been very long indeed as it obviously had its root firmly implanted in my backside. That’s right, I am 100% convinced that she had just pulled a hair from my ass out through my face. That is the only possible explanation for the depth that I can feel this pain.
The tears were still streaming down my face and the full shock was just setting in when I think she said that she had spotted another one. I’m not sure; I didn’t stick around to hear the rest of her sentence.
If anyone needs me, I have currently locked myself in the closet until she falls asleep. If anyone knows a good therapist please give them my number.
Lately the subject of “tinfoil hats” has come to my attention a few times so I feel it is necessary to help dispell some inaccuracies that are common around their construction. Whether it’s 5G networks, mind control rays, chemtrails, space lasers or any of a number of other conspiracies against you (the list is endless really), you may find yourself wondering how to make a proper tinfoil hat. On the surface it seems easy, you grab some good old Reynolds food wrap and shape it as you wish over your somewhat vacuous noggin. But hold on, it’s not that simple! First off, after the Second World War, tinfoil was supersceded by the cheaper “aluminum foil”. If you’ve been making your tinfoil hats out of food wrap over the last 75 years or so you have not been getting any tin protection. While aluminum does help with some things like chemtrail fallout, it does nothing for 5G waves. You need to know your material properties! Pure tin sheeting is expensive, but really can you put a price on saving yourself from brain eradication? I prefer a multi-use type metallic hat just in case there are conspiracies out there that we don’t know about yet. Copper, for example, is the most conductive non-precious metal you can buy – 65% more conductive than aluminum! – and it comes in tape form, which makes it absolutely perfect for hat assembly. What I like to do is start with an old beanie type hat as your base – it helps keep your hat from getting itchy on your scalp so you can wear it for more hours of the day. Since tin is expensive, you can limit its use to about a 10cm wide rectangle for the forehead area and two small squares, one for each temple area. Those 5G waves are targeting your frontal lobe so this is really all you need to protect with tin. (Note – take a look in the mirror and increase the size depending on how big your forehead is) Once you have your tin cut out, go ahead and hot-glue gun those plates directly onto your beanie base. The glue will not affect the reflective qualities of the tin however I do strongly reccomend taking the beanie off of your head before you hit it with hot glue – but you do you. Now you are ready for the first layer of aluminum foil. You want to be careful that you orient this layer correctly and ensure that you put the “shiny” side in. This will keep your thoughts from escaping to where others can read your mind. Keeping your thoughts secure in your head will honestly make the world a better place. I also like to leave a couple of foil flaps hanging down at the back to cover the neck area – an alloy mullet if you will. I’m not sure if it does anything but it looks super cool. Up to this point we have been using all non-ferrous (non magnetic) materials. As an extra layer of protection you can wrap a coil of good old-fashioned galvanized fencing wire around the hat now. This layer doesn’t need to fully cover the surface area, just 6 or 8 wraps will sufficiently disrupt any magnetic impulse beams trying to penetrate your deepest and darkest secret thoughts. (Helpful hint – Leave a loop of free wire at the back that you can grab with plyers later to twist and tighten, so that no NWO agents can pull it off of your head) To hold the wire wrap in place, cover it with the copper tape. Use as much of this as you like, remembering that copper is very conductive so if you are outside during a storm later you may just become a 5 or 6 foot tall lightning rod. Some risks cannot be overcome. In fact, as a functionality test you may wish to actively search out a thunderstorm to stand in. (Note – please video this test and send it to me. Please.) The final step is what will give your hat its “traditional” tinfoil hat look. Cover the entire assembly with your second layer of aluminum foil. Be sure to put this layer of foil opposite to the first layer, with the “shiny” side out this time – to reflect the mind control rays away from you. Some people like to put the foil into a point on top. This conehead look is very aerodynamic and is also quite dapper – style is style and you want to look as good as you feel. You just never know when you will stumble across the love of your life. Of course, you won’t stumble across anyone while living in your basement so now that you have a stylish and functional protective hat, get out there and meet some people. Just be sure to update your Tinder profile pic.
I recently had a friend ask if we had “seasonal pillows” in our house. After a brief discussion, I learned that there are people who change out their cushions to match the colours or themes of the seasons and holidays throughout the year. This got me thinking about our humble couch and I realized that we have seasonal pillows as well:
During the summer our pillows are bright and warm, perhaps even starting to fade a little as the sunshine beats through the windows onto them. These cushions are a deep, natural green – and they are covered in dog hair.
During the dark and cold of winter we have pillows that are soft and cozy, lit up by a flicker of orange from the wood stove, the perfect place to sit with a cup of hot cocoa while the snow falls outside. These winter cushions are a warm, comforting green -and they are covered in dog hair.
At Thanksgiving the cushions transform into extra seating for family, with the smell of turkey and stuffing and ham and pie spread throughout the room. The Thanksgiving pillows are an inviting green colour, perfect for visiting with family – and they are covered in dog hair.
At Halloween they transform again, holding up skeletons and witches or perhaps stuffing a costume that needs filling out. They provide a place of rest for little ghosts and goblins to sit and sort candy, happily examining and organizing every piece of the evenings treasure haul. These Halloween cushions are a dark, haunting green – and they are covered in dog hair.
My favourite seasonal pillows however, are the Christmas pillows. These cushions are full of laughter and love as family and friends sit together and catch up on the year that has passed. They often smell of candles and fresh baking. They often smell of Ham and potatoes and butter and bread. They can be covered in crumpled up wrapping paper, or used as a seat on the floor on Christmas morning. They are lit up by the glow of lights from the tree, reds and blues and yellows and greens all twinkling across their surface. Beneath the shimmering lights of the season, these Christmas cushions are a rich, festive green – and they are covered in dog hair.
My wife and I are the proverbial “empty nesters” and that has brought about some exciting changes with how we utilize our living spaces. One of the biggest changes we have made is to transform our spare bedroom into a giant walk in closet, or “dressing room”. We opened up the wall to make it an adjoining part of our master bedroom and finally almost have enough room for all of our clothes. I say almost because we have a LOT of clothes. My life of haberdashery used to be so easy – clothes for going out in and clothes for not going out in. Done. However thanks to career changes, hobby upgrades and some mild lifestyle tweaks I now find myself in a state of awe every time I walk into the “dressing room”. There are clothes for work, clothes for yard work, clothes for going out for dinner, clothes for going out for a fancier dinner, clothes to go to the beach, clothes to snowshoe in, clothes to dirtbike in, clothes to streetbike in, clothes to snowmobile in, clothes to sleep in, clothes to work out in… you get the idea.
Armed with a slight understanding of our clothes situation, one can clearly see that there is a need for some organization and planning for storage. Bins, shelves, drawers, high racks, low racks; all have their place and they all make perfect sense, but there is one little detail that I never envisioned would become so important in my life: the simple clothes hanger.
Up to this point in my life I had put zero thought into the mighty clothes hanger. It had two purposes: Hold a shirt from falling on the floor and opening a car door after you lock your keys inside. That’s it; the industrious hanger was simple and effective for its intended uses. So perhaps you can imagine my surprise the first time I was told I was using the WRONG HANGER while helping my wife with laundry. I was shocked in fact. I turned and quickly looked for a glaring mistake – the shirt was clearly off of the floor so the hanger was doing its job to perfection – what could possibly be wrong? Little did I know that this was only lesson 1 of what was to become a bachelor’s degree in hangerology.
The error was a grave one; I had mistakenly hung up one of my t-shirts on a wooden hanger. I had obviously missed the memo wherein the declaration was stated that wooden hangers were for the sole purpose of hanging the fancy dress clothes; T-shirts were relegated to the white dollar store plastic hanging devices. Ok, fair enough, the wooden hangers are nicer so it makes sense for the “good” clothes to be on them. I corrected my mistake. Uh oh, not so fast – apparently I was still in breach of hanger regulations. Did you know that there was more than one size of plain white plastic hanger available? Neither did I but ignorance is not a defense of the law so I very quickly learned that the thicker and heavier white plastic hangers were reserved for use in the closet with the heavier jackets – they were not to be wasted on the menial task of t-shirt suspension.
I proceeded to finish hanging my t-shirts with the approved hangers and moved on to the new laundry. Things were about to get more interesting. I pulled out one of my nice work shirts and hung it to dry. I carefully did up the top button so that the collar would lay flat (read about the top button here) and hooked the hanger on the nice bar we had installed for the sole purpose of drying clothes before they were put away. I was quite proud of myself until I heard a voice behind me say “what exactly are you doing??” I froze. Holding back the panic I did a quick run through of what I knew: The shirt was hung nicely, button done up, nice clothes so nice wooden hanger – what was I missing?? With an eyeroll she informed me that WET clothes could absolutely not go on the wooden hangers to dry. I had failed, obviously missing another part of the lesson somewhere along the way. Wet clothes needed to be on plastic hangers. Dang I thought I had nailed that one. Back to the drawing board.
As she followed along redoing my hard work I began to wonder if I was actually helping at all, or just creating more work for her as we went. I was informed that I had incorrectly used the black plastic hangers throughout my side of the dressing room as well. To be fair, the black hanger is absolutely identical in every way to the white hanger with the exception of its colour. I did not realize that apartheid is alive and well in our dressing room as the black hangers are solely for use on her side of the closet. Supposedly it’s to differentiate her clothing from mine which makes perfect sense – I can clearly see how I might grab a pink “women who sled” t-shirt when I clearly wanted my black “AC/DC” t-shirt. I promised to be more careful.
There are many other hanger styles scattered throughout our new-found clothes storage space: Some have clips, some have multiple levels, some are straight, some have hooks for straps, some have swivels – it’s actually quite intense. I now realize that I do not have a hope of correctly memorizing all of these different hangers and their correct usages so I am resolved to sticking with what I know: I get the skinny white hangers for most of my things and a few wooden ones for some of my other things. Anything else is reserved for her specialty clothing department on the other side of the room. Unless it’s not.
Next week I may tackle lesson 2: Direction. I have just found out that shirts should go on a hanger facing a certain way so statistically I have just hung up 50% of my clothes incorrectly. At least they are off of the floor.
Warning – this post contains some background information that some of you may find… well, boring.
As long as I can remember, I have been putting words onto paper – yes actual paper, I am that old. I started writing stories as a child, using a manual typewriter that my parents had. I would make some notes on a paper and then type out a copy of a story. Afterwards it would require the use a pencil to make edits, move lines, scribble and rewrite in the margins and then retype a “good” copy – only to see that I missed a word and had to retype the entire page. Good times. No grammar check, no spell check, no copy and paste – just raw words and a dictionary. This pastime was always just a hobby for me, something to do in the evenings before Netflix and social media were a thing. Many times I suspect it was something I did to avoid homework too. The first time I recall my writing actually being “successful” was in high-school. The class was given an assignment to write a story, but there was a twist; every student had to use the same plot. Thirty students wrote the “same” story, in their own words; my story won and was published because of it. An obsession was born.
Faithful readers of The Involved Husband will know that I usually bake my stories with a spoonful of sarcasm, a dollop of half truths and a bucketful of hyperbole – sometimes with a dash of salt. My stories have made their way into newspapers, magazines and online publications. I have written news articles for local papers as well as product reviews, entertainment pieces and how-tos. I wrote and produced a small local magazine called Snow Country Magazine for a number of years, researching, writing, printing and delivering copies throughout the city. This blog itself, The Involved Husband, has been read in 47 countries around the globe, by tens of thousands of people. I have made people laugh, I have made people cry. I have had complete strangers tell me how a story has touched their lives. As my hobby has grown, so have my goals and aspirations for it. Honestly the feedback from both friends and strangers around the world is undoubtedly the most fulfilling part of this voyage.
I won’t bore you further with this little stroll down memory lane. I have given you just a small glimpse into my literary history as a lead-in to this news: One of my stories has been published in the latest edition of the hugely popular Chicken Soup for the Soul series!
Chicken Soup for the Soul: Laughter is the Best Medicine has a story I previously put together to (mostly) pick on my wife. Long time followers will know that a worldly portion of my dissertations center around my wife, albeit all in humour and loving fun. This story looks at an aspect of our then new-to-us exercise regiment, and it’s aptly titled “My Wife Tried to Kill Me”. Please check it out, available in stores and online April 14 2020.
Thanks to my wife Carla and all of my other readers and supporters (and yes even the critics) – on to the next goal!
The Involved Husband 