Illustration from Monsieur Cabinet

What are your brainjam words?

For me, I mix up ‘know’ and ‘now’ every single time I use them.

Yes, some neural pathways fused together in my brain twenty years ago and since then I always do a three-second triple-check-stutter-step whenever I’m writing either word out a sentence. Spellcheck stays silent and grammar check can’t be trusted, so I’m forced to actually think about whether or not I’m using these words the right way.

Brainjam words are any word you mess up every single time you use it.

Now if you’re like me Brainjam Word Fear sometimes results in bad reactions:

1. The Wraparound. You’re so afraid of the brainjam that you write a long sentence that avoids using the word altogether, even if it makes the sentence sound terrible. If you don’t comprehend what I mean, let me be told.

2. Wordfind paranoia. Before handing in a big essay, you’re so paranoid about submitting with brainjam words that you actually do a search in the document to find every single instance of them for octuple-checking.

3. Complete self-confidence meltdown. If you’re like me this is where your frustration with your inability to spell a three-letter word boils up to the point where you punch a monitor and leave a broken keyboard covered in hot salty tears on your desk. Not a pretty scene.

Of course, these bad reactions are what makes spelling your brainjam word feel so good. It’s a personal victory in the lifelong battle against those neural pathways that are always out to get you. “Maybe,” you think to yourself, after using the right ‘there’, spelling ‘a lot’ as two words, or use the right ‘its’, “I will never doubt myself again.”

“Maybe today is the day for new beginnings.”

“Maybe today is the day for victory.”

“Maybe today is the day for

AWESOME!

Photos from: here and here

There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned holiday hissy fit in an elbow-to-elbow packed mall to help soothe your fraying nerves.

Whether it’s the snotty-nosed toddler wailing on Santa’s lap, the sweaty snowsuit screamer on the floor of the toys section, or just your everyday baby bawler yelling to the food court heavens, it doesn’t matter.

It’s just a migraine moment in the middle of mall mayhem.

And whether you’re taking care of your baby brother, babysitting the neighbors, or wheeling around your own mutant offspring, we’ve all been there. We all know the stress, we see the staring eyes, we all know the pain, and … we do sympathize.

But it’s still great when that kid crying in the mall just isn’t your kid.

Hark! The herald angels sing.

Glory to the kid free king.

AWESOME!

Photo from: here

New jeans feel like cardboard.

Nope, they don’t bend around your body and don’t break around your butt. They just hold you tight in their Blue Deathgrip of Stiffness until three months of wearing them without washing results in faded knees, soft pockets, and comfy creases.

Yes, jeans, baseball gloves, couches, maybe they all take a while to work in. Maybe we buy them knowing the uphill battle of time, effort, and stiffness are eventually all worth it for the softness at the end.

That basement couch is the best of all.

Years and years and years of sitting finally helped the couch get demoted someplace nobody cares about it. Stains on the cushions, missing buttons, and cat-shredded armrests only add to the comfy feeling. Whatever, broken springs, brown zig-zag patterns, and foam puffs popping out all over the place. Those just helps us cave right into the twisted blanket cocoon in front of the flickering TV.

AWESOME!

Photo from: here

AWESOME!

Babies are explorers.

Wombs expand to rooms which open into homes and unknowns. I always think tiny newborns swaddled in strollers on the sidewalk probably feel like astronauts on the furthest edges of the universe. Sky water, ear-shattering bangs, and blinding bright lights help baby realize she’s way, way out in the ether.

But back home is a safe place to start exploring. Mommy-Snugglers, Crib Country, and Playpen Worlds eventually open into distant lands beyond bedroom doors. Crawling leads to discoveries such as kitty litter deserts, toilet water swamps, and hidden forests of chair legs under kitchen tables. Eventually there’s freezing ceramic tile tundras, the forbidden stairs, and the strange discovery of silent twisted coil creatures behind doors.

Coil doorstops must first appear strange – lying still without camouflage, smooth and cool to the touch, with a finely twisted base leading to a smudged rubbery nub. Furrowed eyebrows, steely baby gaze, and some steady one-handed balancing eventually lead to the big moment…

Flicking a coil doorstop back and letting it twang forward fills babies with a brain-clicking sense of satisfaction. Way out here on Linoleum Ridge deep in Front Hallway Galaxy is a strange enemy that appears undefeatable. Pull it back for a threatening lion’s roar but then watch it snap to pre-attack mode – just waiting, waiting, waiting — like a quiet crocodile at the edge of the pond.

These days tripping over coil doorstops when you’re sneaking in after curfew, kicking one while taking out the trash, or just twanging it back for no reason at all fills us all — and fills the hall — with a primal sense of satisfaction.

Plus it’s a little mental mindwarp to your baby exploring days.

AWESOME!

Photos from: here and here

Welcome to the throne.

For years you toiled as a lowly pauper under the rule of another castle. Sure, maybe the leaders of your old kingdom ruled with a fair hand but there were times your ideas and their ideas clashed. They wanted quiet, you wanted a pet jester, they wanted curfews, you wanted courtyard parties, they wanted bunk beds in the barracks, you wanted your own tower.

Now you’ve moved out and got yourself your own place. Sure, the moat’s in rough shape and the stables are a writeoff, but at least it reflects your personality and your taste. You’ve got a new responsibility and can do anything you want: put purple tapestries on the stone walls, hold court with new boyfriends, or skip the castle kitchen to go out for turkey drumsticks and a few glasses of mead.

Long live the king. Long live the queen.

Long live your new kingdom of

AWESOME!

Photos from: here and here

My dad might be Austin Powers.

When you open his closet it’s like being transported straight into the 1960s prom scene. Dark velour suits, purple polka-dot ties, and frilly shirts hang beside each other like dusty friends from days gone by. “Can you spare some mothballs?” I picture a silk shirt saying to a velvet vest. “I’m not going to make it otherwise.”

My dad was a high school teacher for the first thirty years after he came to Canada and he loved chaperoning school dances and bringing my mom along. They would swirl and twirl with big smiles on their faces as they slid their slippery shoes across sandy gym floors deep into the high school crowd.

Like most kids, my sister and I almost always saw my parents in the context of us. Reading Berenstain Bears before bed, swerving station wagons to school, or boiling macaroni for dinner, they were always there, starring in their forever-long feature roles of Mom and Dad.

I think that’s why it’s beautiful seeing your parents dance.

When they slip into an embrace on the dance floor at a wedding they suddenly dissolve out of your world and into their own. They’re not parents but people in love. It’s like getting a window into their first dates and their falling in love … with you spying from the sidelines or just smiling from above.

Your parents disappear and in their place you suddenly see the reason you came to exist. Frilly shirts, floral dresses, and velvet ties spin straight into swirling rainbow swirls of love that existed long before you arrived.

AWESOME!

Photos from: here

Wrap the blankets around you like a mummy, squish your pillow like you’re beating it up, wedge your arm under your head and all over the place, twist and freeze-frame your legs like you’re a chalk drawing, and then when you’re finally done twisting and turning into position… breathe a sigh of relief and feel your body unclench and slowly sink into a beautifully long night of

AWESOME!

Photo from: here

I feel sorry for the DJ.

Sometimes he’s earphone-grooving on the mini-stage and nobody’s stepping out onto the disco-ball spinning floor. Thumping jams, booming beats, I feel like he might start screaming “What will it take, people!?” Dinner chatter still happening, drinks still finishing, nobody’s brave enough to make the first move.

But then eventually the tidal wave pours onto the floor and slow-dancing couples, sweaty seniors, and spinning strangers start filling up the square with hip-shakes and crazy arms. When we’re all on the sidelines there’s the fear of looking stupid, but when we’re all in the middle it’s time to chase down the stragglers and get the whole joint jumping.

That guy who never dances is usually found sipping drinks at the bar, leaning on a backwards dining chair, or smoking outside. He’s avoiding you, he’s avoiding us, because he just doesn’t like dancing. No rhythm, no moves, no desire, no grooves.

But it’s time to get over that, no dancing guy. We’re ready to grab your arms, yank your feet, and push you from behind, because we know once you fade into the screaming mess you’ll fit right into our big dancing moment of

AWESOME!

Photo from: here