The straight buzz on a hair-raising rite of passage

“Just sit still, I’m sure I can even it up.” — Mom, wielding scissors.

There are many milestones that usher you into full-on parenthood, but nothing affirms that arrival quite like the rite of passage sure to scar every child: when you decide you can give your kid a haircut.

Mom did this to us, and we have the photographic evidence to prove it. I have thick, stick straight hair, and too often my bangs looked like someone had taken a bite out of them.

She was just trimming them a little, she’d say, wielding the kitchen scissors we used to open milk bags and clip coupons. We had a hairdresser down the road but for quick touch-ups, Mom was on it.

Class pictures from my childhood reveal year after year of crew-cuts on the boys; I still know a lot of people who just kind of get their boy children shorn every few months and I was, admittedly, happy when my sons were just that easy.

Girls are different. Growing up, we all wanted long hair, but Mom deemed until we could take care of it ourselves, that wasn’t going to happen. The photographs reveal a lot of little bowl cuts, except for Gilly, the youngest, who somehow managed to score natural curls.

Mom never attempted to doctor her own hair, of course. She had a permanent permanent (I never saw my mother without a perm) which was pretty common for her era. We grew up thinking you knew you were a grownup when you started getting perms and roller sets, an idea that haunts my sister Roz to this day.

Because people want what they can’t have, I wanted curly hair. My mother promptly gave me a perm, which just as promptly fell out. Looking back, I am grateful she didn’t try it again.

Roz wasn’t so lucky. In a fit of Homestyle Hairdresser, Mom and my Aunt Jean decided Roz, then aged 8 or so, would look darling with some curls. Roz wasn’t so sure, but out came the Toni home perm and into the kitchen chair she went.

No poodle at Westminster had ever looked poodlier than Roz looked that day. I’m not sure what result my mother was imagining — the Toni home perm girl on the box sure looked a lot happier than my sister. Unlike me, Roz has fine hair, so it took rather nicely to the miracle chemicals my mother soaked her head in.

When Gilly was about 12, I got a frantic phone call from her. She was in our bedroom, crying, phone cord under the door. I could hear Mom (and come to think of it, probably my Aunt Jean, as well) outside the door. Mom had offered to trim her bangs, and now she was desperate for me to get home and take the scissors from her. Apparently, in an attempt to keep evening things up, the bangs kept getting shorter and shorter. Roz had moved out by this time, because I like to think she would have used her Toni home perm experience to save her little sister.

The funny thing is, in our dress-up cupboard, which featured a lot of Mom’s old party dresses and some (on reflection) fabulous shoes, were a set of three wigs. They were plastic helmets that looked like you’d put a cabbage on your head. They were harsh and horrible and so spectacular, we all used to fight over the blond one.

Because I learn nothing, when Ari was about 10, I announced I’d bought clippers so I could do his buzz cut at home. He let me do it exactly once.

I’d officially become my mother.

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We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the chives

I didn’t pull the yard in the fall, and I knew the spring cleanup was going to be beastly.

I told Ari and Taryn I needed a couple hours from both of them, which they promptly agreed to. “We’ll be back Sunday, will that be OK?” they asked and I agreed.

On Saturday I called Christopher and Pammy at work to make the same request. “You know it’s going to rain all day Sunday, right?” asked Pammy and I replied that I did not.

And so on Saturday, I found myself cleaning up the yard. Alone. I rather like doing it, but because of the dogs we now have a fenced yard, but a cheap one that has no gate.

I can’t lift heavy bags over the fence alone. The only one who can get from the backyard to the front with any elegance is Ari, who can leap it like a gazelle. I look like a turtle clinging to two lawn chairs as I make the transition over. I do it when nobody is looking. I hope.

I got to work with a rake and a digger thing, apologizing to my late father as I went along. This is still his yard and I still come out here to talk to him. I glanced at my pathetic vegetable plot, last year’s tomato plants curled up like paper corpses around stakes now boldly staking nothing at all. As I tugged out dead pepper stalks, I was pleasantly surprised to notice two huge clumps of chives waving away in the spring sunshine. It appears chives can survive our winters — and my gardening skills.

When I was a toddler, I’d play out here while my father puttered in his huge garden. He was busy and I was busy, but he could keep an eye on me as I put the world to rights in my sandbox. We had mourning doves, noisy little creatures that I apparently took exception to. “Hoo hoo, yourself!” I would yell, my father laughing at my furrowed brow. It’s not just a family story; it’s the truth. I was born trying to change things, and these birds were interrupting my concentration.

I mention this only because as I scrambled along pulling out leaves and weeds from my cedar hedge line, another bird started making a racket. It was close, nesting low in the cedars somewhere. I couldn’t see it and I knew not to go peering too closely. If I got within a couple of metres, she would start fussing each time. My father would have known what kind of bird it was, why it nested there, and when the babies would be coming. He would have explained why I wasn’t allowed to get too close; that the best way to let her guard her babies was for me to never even see them.

I would have argued and tried to peek, because how often is a bird’s nest at eye level? He would have caught me and hauled me back, and told me to dig dandelions out because he knew that was my favourite thing to do. So five decades later, I put down my rake and went to dig up dandelions.

I’ll clear that section of the yard in a couple of weeks, when there is no longer an agitated bird mom defending her home. I’ll thank my dad for teaching me things about gardens, and mourning doves, and childish instincts. I’ll thank him for reminding me the only way to move forward is to get down in the dirt and do the work.

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A miscarriage is not a disability

Is a miscarriage a disability?

A recent ruling by the Human Rights Tribunal of Ontario says it is.

A Toronto woman was fired from her job after suffering a major depressive episode she says was triggered by a miscarriage and the death of her mother-in-law. The tribunal ruled in her favour that she shouldn’t have lost her job because of the depression, which they got right. Then they went a step further and said her miscarriage was a disability, which they got wrong.

There are two crucial issues at play here, and both matter. Mental health in the workplace is still a giant ball of stigma, freighted with assumptions and misunderstandings. A report recently released by CivicAction found that in the Greater Hamilton and Toronto Area (GHTA), one in five in the labour force is dealing with a mental health issue, and 31 per cent have coped with it in the past year. Add in how many of us love someone dealing with it, and I doubt many of us remain untouched.

A miscarriage, while truly emotional, is not a disability. I experienced a wanted pregnancy that ended in miscarriage. It was bewildering, stressful and sad. It was also an incredibly common outcome; many women miscarry before they even know they’re pregnant. Your body is a marvel and that marvel frequently makes decisions so organic in nature, you’re fooling yourself if you ever believed you had a say in it.

Many things can trigger a depression, or other related mental health issue. I deal with bipolar disorder, and a manic episode can be fluttering in the wings as surely as a depressive one. Why someone can handle something one time and not another is not the issue; the cause of the breakdown is important only in the sense of diagnosis and treatment, not as a “good enough” excuse.

Shorter answer? Acknowledging the existence of depression and the impact it has on an employee is good practice; labelling the cause of the depression a disability is not.

Loss changes us. It sharpens some parts of us as surely as it dulls others. But the fact remains that life is about loss and we can talk all we like about the natural progression of things, as if there is a sliding scale dependent on age, or the loss of one person superseding that of another. I’ve heard people say they get less support when they lose a parent than a sibling or child because it’s the natural order of things, as if your heart is a deck of cards and one trumps another.

The tribunal has stepped into muddy waters with this decision. Like universities changing curriculums or having to issue trigger warnings on topics that might be sensitive, we’re barrelling headlong down a path of buffering all the hard edges with bubble wrap.

Life is tough. You don’t get to make your way through it wearing a helmet and pads with everyone removing the risks ahead of you. Instead, we need open and honest conversations about dealing with things like depression, instead of thinking we can somehow make it not exist.

Nobody can alter my brain chemistry by making sure nothing hurts my feelings or by not requiring me to show up and participate in the maintenance of my own health. I do not have a disability; I have a diagnosis. When I had a miscarriage, I did not have a disability; I had a loss.

We’re having a hard enough time getting mental health issues out into the open where they can be handled empathetically, practically and to a good end result. Don’t cloud the issue by slapping disabling labels on common — if sad — medical occurrences.

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Catfished by cats; judging kittens when they’re sleeping

We’re told not to judge a book by its cover. We may mentally understand the concept, but we are emotional infants when it comes to pretty, shiny or in my case, adorable, things.

When I lost Maggie just over a year ago, I wanted another cranky little calico. I reasoned that JoJo was getting on in years, Sweet Pea would be moving out with the kids, so I started looking for a little Maggie. I’ve never actually gone looking for a cat before, they always just end up here. But I wanted a calico, a bossy, grumpy little beast.

I called shelters and shopped online. Every time, I’d have one just in my grasp and I’d hear, “sorry, someone just took her.” I was eventually way beyond looking; I would have taken anything sight unseen. I finally got a call from a rescue. My heart leapt as I grabbed a kid and the car keys and headed to the store where they display rows of broken hearts.

catsThere was a tiny calico, all right, with another cat firmly wrapped around her. They were sleeping, big brother securely protecting her from someone who just wanted a calico and not a big brother. I swallowed hard and Taryn, my kitty co-pilot, said exactly the wrong thing: “Maybe we should just hold her and see what she’s like.”

Of course I took them both, because I bought that book cover. Two darling bundles with an impossibly hard kitten life: they’d been rescued off the streets in Egypt, where romantic notions of cats being idolized by the ancients are nonsense, and instead, feral gangs of cats roam the streets and are hated and abused. It’s not that I thought Canada had run out of stray cats, it just so happened the calico I wanted had a back-story more interesting than my own.

It soon became evident I’d brought mayhem into my household. We named them Mark and Cairo, but we should have named them Jekyll and Hyde. Come feeding time, they become sharks. I have to separate them from JoJo and Pea, who eat calmly on the other side of a door wondering what all the noise is. My kitchen cabinets are all duct taped shut because they will steal every last piece of food and run.

I reasoned that feral kittens would take some time to calm down; they’d soon learn every meal was not their last, and I could quietly go back to just being the woman who had four cats, not the woman who had two good cats and two insane cats though admittedly knowing there is no way to dress up the fact I have four cats.

Flash forward a year, and I’ve learned some things.

I worked with a cameraman who happened to be from Egypt.

“Oh,” I told him, “I adopted two cats from Egypt!” He raised his eyebrows. “Why would you do that? Cats in Egypt are crazy.” I thanked him for his insight.

A colleague had actually written a piece on the feral cats of Egypt while there reporting on the revolution.

“You wrote about feral cats,” I emailed him. “I adopted a couple and I can’t figure out why they’re so nuts.”

He wrote back about waiters hurling them into the sea to get them off patios.

I asked a vet I was working with about my little darlings. “They are the product of generations of abuse and neglect. I could tell you stories …”

So my sweethearts are hard-wired to be ferocious at feeding time, but incredibly affectionate in the other hours.

They might need a different cover, but I’d still buy the book.

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The sandwich generation: maybe not what you think

“Can we stop at Canadian Tire? I want to buy a sandwich maker,” said Ari, 21. I sighed quietly. I already can’t see my kitchen counters for two reasons: I have almost no counter space, and what I do have is buried beneath clutter and things like sandwich makers.

“Why do you suddenly need a sandwich maker?” I asked.

“Because Miles had one when we did that robotics trip and he brought it to the hotel room. We ate grilled cheese sandwiches the whole time. It was awesome.” It should be noted that this was about six years ago. He has not seen Miles in that time. He has not mentioned the robotics trip in that time. It’s like he stepped off a magic bus and opened his eyes in 2016.

“You may buy a sandwich maker if you clean up the counters first and sort out the cupboards.” I knew this would be stupid, like ice cream and bread makers I know that reside next to boxes of Christmas decorations in houses all over; I have neither, though we do have an Egg McMuffin maker down there that Ari used every day for a year when he was 9. One decent frying pan can make your life complete. Instead, my son sauntered out of the store carrying a fifteen buck, bottom of the line sandwich maker.

Back home, he started emptying cupboards that have needed emptying for years.

“You’re like on those shows where they say, “I won’t have to buy pasta until I’m 70!”. That’s what you do,” he said, piling pasta on the counter.

“We go through a lot of pasta. You have no idea how much, only that when you want it, it’s there. When it goes on sale, I have to buy it.”

“Those people are nuts. They have entire shelving units full of stuff. You need shelving units. Or you need to stop buying pasta. These cupboards are actually big. Everything would fit if you quit buying pasta. I just texted Taryn a picture of our pasta problem.”

“Stop taking pictures. We do not have a pasta problem.” I reassured myself when Taryn got home she would be on my side.

“Who bought couscous?” he asked, staring at a box he’d found. “Probably Pammy,” I told him. Sure wasn’t me.

“Who bought quinoa?” he asked, reaching higher. “Probably Pammy,” I told him. Again, not me.

“Does anyone actually eat low sodium Triscuits?” he asked. “I do,” I replied. “I’ve never seen you,” he said suspiciously. “I do a lot of things you’ve never seen me do.” That shut him up for a moment.

“What about this applesauce?” He was getting near the top shelves now. “I bought it for your lunches.” The last time he took a lunch he was 11.

“What’s manicotti?” he asked, blowing dust off a box. “Pasta,” I told him. “I read a recipe once and thought I’d make something with it.” That ended exactly as you think it ended.

With everything finally cleared up, he hauled out his sandwich maker. He threw the instructions and the box in the recycling bin. “Hey, there’s not even an on and off switch. This is sick,” he said, smiling. This is the kid who complains if the car doesn’t have a heated steering wheel. I watched him fiddle with it, finally stuffing a sandwich in it. I heard him muttering under his breath and asked him what he’d said.

“I told the cat to get his tail out of the way while I closed it, and said how great this thing will be if I’m drunk.”

I don’t want to know what happened in that motel room.

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April brings tulips, taxes and all the stories in between

While the rest of you may be cheering the nudge of tulips through gardens covered in layers of a Mother Nature who can’t make up her mind, I stare wistfully through my smudgy windows and woefully at the piles of paper that have accumulated on my long table.

It’s tax time.

Each year will be different, I tell myself, and next year will be. Again.

Certain I had a handle on things last year, I carefully cleared out my file cabinet to be organized for the coming onslaught. Instead, I spent hours immersed in stories and poems and drawings I’d held on to since the boys were in preschool. Determined to gather it all in one spot, I combed files and corners for photos and papers and journals and spent that afternoon reliving two decades. It was a different kind of accounting.

That’s my problem, of course. I will drop everything if someone tells me a story. I’ve been late getting on planes, I’ve spent hours some weeks returning emails, and I’m one of those weird people who mean it when they ask: “How are you?” It deflects things like my taxes, but taxes are taxing and stories are wonderful and how can you blame me?

I have an accountant I adore who dutifully listens to my stories in turn. I started going to him when I was 18, with a burgeoning business that I thought required the professional polish of a professional accountant.

First year’s sales were $356. I’m not sure what he charged me, though he’s never let me forget I showed up wearing leather pants. The straitlaced accountant and the crazy chick in the leather pants: it’s been a lifelong friendship I continue to cherish. That other kind of accounting, again.

I’d taken a bookkeeping course to handle the millions that didn’t materialize but the practice remained handy. The problem? The table covered in mounds of papers that must be sorted, collated and reduced to a single sheet I hand to Henk for his accounting magic.

Yes it’s in my computer, but every year as those tulips force through, the tulips my Dad planted, I need to see the year before me as I think about the ones that have passed.

So, too, do the cats. The late, fabulous Maggie would sit serenely among piles of paper enjoying the sunlight and chasing any that fell to the floor; papers on the floor signalled recycling, and meant she could frolic.

The youngsters I have now believe the table itself is simply a paper highway and dive and cavort in the piles, making my work four times harder. This is the problem when the previous worker leaves without training the incoming ones.

I would get angry, except I know the value of developing new stories. I let them play.

I tell all the kids to give me their official slips and papers; with myriad tuitions and student loans and part-time jobs, I want to make sure nothing gets missed.

Taryn asked which papers she should give me. The scary ones, I told her, and she understood. I asked her about previous years, before she knew my son, and together we go over that accounting. We find that story.

Training has made me a receipt keeper, and I parse out the relevant ones each year. The most important receipts — treks to the cottage with the kids or the Reward Boots for landing a new gig or the parking slip from Niagara Falls after losing one — are the ones that get tossed away.

I’m wrong; I don’t do my accounting once a year, I do it every day.

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Go With The Flow

Ari, 21, has always kept his hair clipped down short. From about age 5, he’d hop in the hairdresser’s chair and ask for a number two. I’d ask each time if he’d perhaps like a style; he always said no. And so it went, a number two year in and year out and my darling son looking like someone who had just been released from prison.

Today, my son has boy band hair.

He doesn’t call it that, but when I saw a boy band on TV recently, I realized that’s what it was. The hair on top of his head is high and swirly like a wave waiting to be surfed; he has hair that requires no product and he’s unselfconscious enough about his looks to believe it happened by accident. A friend patiently explained to me that this hair is called “flow”. He keeps a hat on it most days so I hadn’t realized just how long it had gotten until recently.

Ari FlowIn anticipation of a trip we were all taking, he and his girlfriend Taryn went shopping to buy him some respectable clothing. It was to be a work trip for me, and I’d told him there would be dinners where he couldn’t wear shorts and flip flops. Taryn sent me photos as he tried things on, and in one he had hauled off his cap to reveal the full cockatiel. It had a kind of Elvis quality to it and when I later said so, they both smiled politely. In that moment I understood what it will be like to be the oldest person in the world.

Dressing for dinner the first night of the trip, Ari came into my bathroom desperately looking for something. “I have to do something with it,” he said. The glacier of hair looked rather cute, but did indeed clash with the button-downed look of junior executive-on-vacation that he’d settled on. He hauled a comb through it, and tossed on a little spray for good measure. It calmed down, though at the cost of that famous flow. I told him he looked very nice.

A colleague of mine met him 10 minutes later and said he looked like Mitt Romney. He proceeded to introduce him as The Young Republican for the rest of the evening. Ari looked horrified and told me he was getting his hair cut. It’s not often you can be Harry Styles one minute and Mitt Romney the next so I told him to embrace the flexibility.

Back home, he came rummaging in my room one night. “I need a hair thingie,” he said, poking around on my bedside table. I handed him a hair elastic. “Yeah, that, thanks.” He left the room. A minute later he returned with his hair pushed into a fountain sprouting from his forehead.

“You look like a unicorn,” I told him.

“Taryn told me to wash my face. She said you put your hair in a ponytail to wash your face.” I could hear Taryn giggling in the next room. I’ve become accustomed to living with girls now, with Pammy and Taryn ushering in a wave of femininity and detail that was previously missing. I dress more like my sons most days, and I’ve been dulled over the years by things like number two haircuts. My Mom never cared how we cut and coloured our hair — or at least she never admitted it — though my father used to sputter. I learned a lot from my Mom; it’s just hair, and I actually like Ari’s Elvis hair.

Go with the flow.

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When a wet dog hugs you, you smell like a wet dog

As someone who has little reason to worry about a commute to work — down the stairs to the kitchen is usually about it — I also have little reason to worry about the weather.

That sounds selfish, and I do care what others have to contend with, but if I wake up and spy rain, I may shrug a little and curse the greyness.

Until Shelby. When you have a dog, weather is all of a sudden of major importance. I don’t care about wet weather because I’m going to stay inside no matter what. Shelby doesn’t care about wet weather because she is going to go outside no matter what.

Ari and Taryn are gone most days at work and school; Shelby duty falls to Mama L (we don’t use the G word), and for the most part, Shelby and I are a decent team when the cats don’t get in the way. She has a million toys that require almost constant disembowelling, many gross dried parts of dead animals to chew on, and a nap schedule I envy.

She also likes to go outside. And come back in. And go back out. She’s busy out there; she has puppy friends on three sides of the yard who meet up regularly like the retired guys you see at Tim’s every morning; she’s dug two sizeable holes that need maintaining and if not Shelby to haul massive branches around the yard, then who?

Shelby2Shelby is a collie/shepherd mix with huge brown eyes and the sweetest temperament I’ve ever experienced in a dog. Shelby doesn’t bark; she politely taps at the door to be let back in. If I don’t hear her, Sweet Pea, the only cat who likes her, will sit and mewl until I notice. Pea is actually a tiny border collie in a cat suit. She rounds everybody up.

What I have learned in the past year is that dogs with long, soft, furry coats shed. They get wet because they roll in the grass and run around under cedar trees, because that is apparently what all the cool kids do. I now find myself multiple times a day wiping a dog’s paws as she patiently holds them up one after another, then towelling her off as she hugs me.

I am a cat person. Shelby knows this and does not make my life difficult. She’s worried she might be the first creature, human or otherwise, to ever get evicted from this house.

A friend was over the other day and as we sat on the couch, I realized Shelby had been off her blanket. I surreptitiously started grooming the couch for dog hair, as if nonchalant hand vacuuming happens all the time. He finally asked what I was doing. I looked at the huge ball of dog hair in my hands and decided no more friends could visit.

I’ve already vacated most of my house rules. When the boys were young, it was simply, “only call me if you’re bleeding” and by the time they’d grown, it had progressed to “only call if you need bail.”

Keeps things simple.

Cats aren’t allowed on the counter, and the first two knew that. The current kittens don’t care and I do that thing where if someone new comes in the house, I glance at the cats on the counter and firmly yell, “I told you, off the counter!” and the cats looked confused, and then bored, and I fool nobody.

Shelby turned two a few days ago, and Taryn happily announced that made her 14.

Another kid entering the teen years. Awesome.

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Looking for love in all the wrong places

“Ew, ew, ew, ew. You should read the creepy message some guy sent me on LinkedIn,” said my sister one morning.

Ah, LinkedIn, that professional networking website for professionals that some professionals keep mixing up with a dating site.

LinkedIn allows individuals to connect based on professional ties. You can request to be “linked” to someone, and they have the option of adding you to their list of connections.

Most of this is fairly straightforward: I accept and make requests based in the automotive industry, creative aimed at writers and anything that might understandably augment either of those things. I do not accept requests from random people I can’t conceive of having any reasonable need to connect with. I have a great imagination, but even I can’t come up with a reason to open the doors to someone who believes their multi-level marketing nonsense is an “opportunity.”

Call me old school, but I believe in a special demarcation between church and state. Any entity – LinkedIn, in this case – devoted to work should be treated like work. If I’m using this site to hunt for employees or for projects, why would I want to see you in your wedding finery? I’ve seen women in what can only be described as boudoir photos, I’ve seen men in shorts holding fish, I’ve seen bios full of spelling errors and I’ve seen pictures of people with pets because they’ve obviously mixed this up with Facebook.

All of these pale in comparison, however, to the messages that make me feel like I’m sitting in a bar. Messages like the one my sister received the other day.

Maybe our online lives are just too fluid; maybe it’s natural for one area to flow into another as our work lives serpentine with our personal ones; maybe it’s just normal for some men to think LinkedIn is actually a Woman Catalogue.

Most of us (should) know by now that recruiters and employers are going to check on our social media postings. It’s too easy and tempting not to poke around, especially when you can do it under the guise of investigating someone for professional reasons. If you’re a blackout drunk or raging racist (or simply spend all your free time with people who are), by 2016, you can reasonably expect some blowback. Nothing tiptoes on the Internet.

But what about those who go barrelling past every boundary of good taste and good grace while flying their company flag? I’ve received creepy come-ons like my sister did, from men I’ve never met but, thanks to LinkedIn, now know all their professional affiliations. It makes airbrushed boudoir photos seem positively tactful.

What would your HR department think of you sending out your best pickup lines on the company stationery? Maybe you’re the boss and used to everybody stickhandling around you, but rest assured, those in your employ may humour you but nobody else will feel so obligated.

Most industries are entwined with others; LinkedIn is great at the algorithms that pimp you across various platforms, meaning being a major player in one area doesn’t guarantee you will be in another – your words can and will be used against you.

I’ve nothing against a swing and a miss in proposing a business relationship; how else do we build careers? But confusing a professional arena with your dating pool makes me question your judgement along with your integrity.

The fact you’re doing it as a representative of your company means you might have to start using your connections for another purpose – finding a new job.

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When your house whispers at you, instead

Modern technology has robbed me of much of my noise making ability.

It’s torn away my frustration outlets. It has taken all the loud, banging thumps and crashes that came with a satisfying door slam or phone hang-up and replaced them with sad-faced emoticons or one with a devil spouting tiny horns. There is no comparison.

I grew up with a black Bell phone on the kitchen counter. That sucker could have knocked out Mike Tyson if hurled correctly. Slamming down the receiver was not just satisfying, it sent a thunderous message throughout the entire house. It even gave a weak ring in the midst of the thunder, as if the phone cried a little and tried to duck, which is what I imagined whomever had forced me to such action was also doing.

Along came flip phones and I would watch people deliver a weak slap to that tinny flap, exasperation replacing anger.

Nowadays, it doesn’t matter how hard I push a button, the message received on the other end is the same. Call ended. Nothing to see here. I have never hurled a cellphone, though people in movies do it all the time. I understand why.

I cracked a phone screen a few years back; it shattered simply by falling to the floor from a table. What kind of wimpy phone does that? I hadn’t stuffed it in its kryptonite case yet, but I found myself wondering why they don’t just build them out of that stuff instead of selling me another layer that should have been there to begin with.

I just answered my own question.

Have you ever tried to slam a modern drawer? No matter what you do, the drawer rescues itself halfway in and gently tucks itself away. This is an upsell feature on many products: cupboards and drawers that are unslammable.

I have a toilet seat that does this, too, which I will admit is a blessing in the middle of the night when I am not rattled from sleep because someone chose this time to remember I like the lid down at all times.

My Dad used to make a lot of noise with his tools. Well, my Dad made a lot of noise all the time, but I grew up believing that the only way to work a tool box was to repeatedly slam the narrow drawers shut as you hunted for whatever was eluding you. I still do this; I like the zipping noise the trays make as they’re whiskered in and out, and it makes me feel efficient in a very inefficient way: the screwdriver I’m looking for is usually in the junk drawer in the kitchen.

I’m not an especially violent person, though I do love to toss on a pair of boxing gloves once in a while. It’s not that I want to end every phone call with a crash or find fault with a cutlery drawer. I just miss the household code. If Mom heard a series of drawers being opened and shut, she’d yell and ask what we were looking for and tell us it was in the laundry. If Dad sutured the front door shut with a shove after work, we’d know good day/bad day without a word spoken. A phone slam meant: don’t ask your kid how the relationship is going — or, maybe, do.

With an increasingly decentralized household — everyone has their own phone, most watch entertainment on their own devices, a shared dinner hour is often claimed by bashing schedules — I miss the subtle theatrical cues that modern technology keeps erasing.

I just realized how silently I typed this. I learned on an old Underwood and I threw that carriage return with intent.

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