Too Much of a Bad Thing

     I have a good life, for the most part. I have a loving family, good friends, a bed to sleep in and food to eat every night. But sometimes, because of my father's cooking, I wish I didn't have to eat it. Now don't get me wrong, I love my father. He takes my sister and I places, buys us gifts, makes us laugh and really does loves us, but his cooking is abysmal. He has no freaking clue what flavours go well together (Thousand Island dressing does not taste good in potato salad), what colours should go together (you should never make chicken with Alfredo sauce and cauliflower with white cheese sauce on the same plate) and what not to make every single time he cooks dinner. Last year, every single night, my dad made salmon, and it wasn't even different kinds. Just plain, burnt, dry, barf-worthy salmon. When my sister and I complained, he would get all "sensitive". "Fine then. Don't eat. I'll never cook again." he used to say and " You never appreciate my cooking and there are children in Africa starving that would love to eat this dinner." He's probably right, but Salmon every night. Really? I used to love Salmon. Now, I can't even bare to look at it without wanting to puke. I know some people say too much of a good thing is bad, but too much of a bad thing is even worse.

       Thankfully, my father has gotten better with cooking over the years with help from my mother, cook books and Bobby Flay. He now makes stew, jambalaya (his specialty), chicken, fish and chips, sloppy joes and hot potato salad (which is actually, quite good). Even though my father has moved on from his "Salmon" phase, some of his cooking is still questionable. He has now obtained a new phase, "sweet potato". He probably makes them every night, and I, once again, try to ovoid coming down to dinner. Here we go again.

My Grandfather

These are photographs of my grandfather, Ross Finlayson, from W.W.II.

Lest We Forget

     As some of you already know, I played in the Remembrance assembly today with the Sr. Band. As I was getting up to drain my trumpet, I saw something that made me mad. No, not mad, livid. I saw some "I'm too cool for school" grade nine wearing his poppy on his hat. Poppies are supposed to be worn over your heart to symbolize that we remember all of the men and women who fought and are still fighting for us. They're worn to show we appreciate their sacrifices. Poppy wearing might not seem important to some people, but it really should be. By wearing a poppy on your hat or you backpack, you're basically just trying to be cool or different. I, personally, find it rude and insanely disrespectful. These men and women risked their lives for us, and people can't even wear poppies correctly?
    The reason why I care about poppies so much is because Remembrance day has always been close to my heart. My grandfather, Ross Finlayson, fought in W.W.II as a fighter pilot and lived to tell the horrific tale. Can you even begin to imagine what it would be like to get into a plane everyday, knowing that it might be your last? My grandfather and so many other men and women risked and lost their lives for our freedom and people can't even respect them as much to wear a poppy right? That sort of thing disgusts me. Wear your poppies the right way, please.

The Window

I see leaves change in the fall,

I see snowflakes fall in the winter,

I see flowers bloom in the spring,

But I cannot smell them.

I see children playing,

laughing,

But I cannot laugh with them.

I see hurt,

I see pain,

I see suffering,

But I cannot feel.

I see family and hope,

I see love,

But I can never love.

No one loves me,

even though I’m their light in the darkness,

their mirror to the outside word.

I am all knowing,

But not all feeling.

I know more than anyone; yet I know nothing.

No one can ever love me

and I can never love.

A Great Leader

      A few days ago, while I was babysitting, I witnessed something both extremely amusing and extremely frightening; Sidney Crosby in a fight. At first, I thought it was great. Crosby never fights, so this was a rare treat to watch. A couple of seconds into the fight however, I became nervous. If he ended up getting hurt, the Penguins would not only lose their best player but also, their captain. If Crosby had broken his hand or something, he'd be out for about 4-6 weeks. That would, for lack of a better word, suck. Luckily, he wasn't injured in the brawl, so I could breathe a sigh of relief. After the game, Crosby explained why he fought. When I heard the explanation, I instantly had a new found respect for him.
      Crosby explained that Brendon Morrow (the captain of the Dallas Stars), started a fight with the Pittsburgh defense man, Kristopher Letang. Apparently, Letang hurt his hand in a previous game and that was the reason Morrow picked on him. Morrow could have not been aware of the injury; but I doubt it. A few minutes later, right after the faceoff, Crosby asked Dallas defense man, Matt Niskanen if he wanted to go. And of course, he went.
        What made this fight so significant was by taking care of business, Crosby tried to stick up for his teammate and inspire his team. Crosby doesn't really have fight, since he's a superstar. This was, in fact, only his 5th career fight. Even though he could have gotten pummelled (Sid isn't really the best fighter), he still dropped the gloves. Now that's what I call a great leader. The Pittsburgh Penguins ended up losing the game 5-2, but that's an entirely different story.
  

The Game

   The heart-wrenching cheers of hope were becoming too much to handle. I felt like an ancient, haggard man, the entire nations' dreams of victory weighing down my shoulders. As I frantically skated towards the net, I looked up towards the tsunami of noise. There, in front of me, was a grand mosaic of red and white. I was a single, red leaf in thousands, but I'd never felt so alone. My face was a broken facet, the sticky sweat pouring rhythmically onto my jersey. I wasn't sure if we could win the game, but losing wasn't an option. Suddenly, I was passed the puck. With the game on my stick, I skated towards the frozen tundra of destiny that lied before me. As I my eyes saw the goaltender, auto pilot kicked in. It was as if someone had pressed delete on a computer, my memory wiped. I couldn't remember where I was or who I was, but I knew what I was supposed to do. I was a blank piece of parchment, the crowd writing my story with their continuous chanting. I had no past. I had no future. I was the present, and it was now or never. I shot the puck at the net.

Motherly Love

"I have a tip that can take five strokes off any one's golf game:  it's called an eraser."- Arnold Palmer. I don't need a eraser to improve my golf game since nothing can hide the fact that it still takes me 30 strokes to put the ball in the hole (I'm not kidding, once I was +78). But I really wish I could use one to erase the memory etched in my mind of the day we went to the Canadian Open charity golf tournament. 
      It all started when my Dad told my sister and I we were going to the Open. Since I find golf incredibly boring and am terrified of golf balls, I really didn't want to go. It wasn't until my Dad told us Dion Phaneuf and Rick Nash were going to be there, that we became excited. When we arrived in Toronto for the tournament,  I brought all of my hockey things for them to sign, including the Olympic Issue of Sports Illustrated and a Toronto Maple Leafs teddy bear my Grandfather bought for me. My sister and I even wore our Team Canada t-shirts, just to show we liked hockey. Wearing them proved to be pure genius. We actually got every hockey player at the tournament to give us their autograph. After getting Martin Brodeur, Steven Stamkos and Dion Phaneuf's (Dion was super nice and actually talked to me. I couldn't breathe.) autograph, Kate and I went looking for Rick Nash. Well, we found him alright. While he was walking towards us, I could see my mother coming closer to where he was supposed to sign. She was talking to herself and had a strange look in her eye. At first, I ignored her because Rick Nash, the captain of the Columbus Blue Jackets, had just signed my magazine. As he was signing my sister's hockey book, I heard my mother saying, really loudly, "he's so hot" continuously from behind me. Unfortunately, the shy, Rick Nash heard her and literally ran to the next hole. I felt utterly, ridiculous. Rick ran away from my creepy mother, nice. Now, don't get me wrong, I had fun at the Open but I really wish I could forget the pure terror in Rick's eyes as he dashed away from my mother. It's surprising he hasn't filed a restraining order yet.