Lesson Learned

Life is full of opportunities to learn, isn’t it?

On the first official day of our vacation, we very responsibly applied blobs of sunscreen and then floated and frolicked freely in the ocean for the next two and a half hours! Talk about bliss.

By the end of the day, we were completely fried. Toasted and roasted.


Burnt, but still determined to enjoy sun, sand and surf


Between wagging her finger and sternly tapping it on the sunscreen bottle, Susan had difficulty expressing sympathy as Tristan and I moaned about our sunburns.

The lesson we learned that first day proved very valuable for the rest of our vacation; forget about fun in the sun, spend all your time re-applying!




Just as you start having fun, re-apply!

Feeling comfortable out there? Re-apply!

Relaxing and enjoying your time off? Re-apply!

Walking to the grocery store? Re-apply!

Flinging a frisbee? Re-apply!

Finished re-applying? Re-apply!

Admittedly annoying and messy, we owe our comfort over the next few days to the constant and incessant re-application of sunscreen.

One day, post-burn, Susan kindly reserved her fried fools a couple of shaded lounge chairs by the pool. By the time we arrived to claim the chairs, birds perched in the tree overhead had decorated our towels! I cleaned off the bird poop and sat down on one of the chairs. Moments after making a comment to Tristan about the bird sitting directly over me in the tree, I felt warm liquid hit my arm in two places. I never felt the third splotch of slightly more solid material hit my knuckle, but, blurting guffaws, Tristan noticed it! After re-applying, we quickly chose to move to a spot out from under the tree and in the sun.

After that, I kept my eye on all the people who sat in the lounge chairs under the tree, expecting someone to be bombed by the birds. No one ever was!

No doubt there’s a lesson in there somewhere, I’m just not sure I'm interested in figuring it out.

Reality Thankfully Suspended

Blind and diabetic, Moose requires insulin shots, twice daily. We’d rather take her with us on vacation than leave her in one of the few places equipped to give the shots, like a vet’s sterile office. We enjoy having both our dogs with us and we know they’d much rather be with us, too.

The pet-friendly hotel where we stay has a designated dog-walking area. I would often take them to the spot so they could do their business. One particular afternoon last week, I took them to the dog zone and noticed a man and woman watching me from their second-floor hotel balcony.

Just as Moose started pooping, Spike pulled his leash to the opposite extreme and proceeded to poop. I was standing there with my arms stretched to the limit in opposite directions! The couple watched.

Moose finished and I managed to switch her leash over to the hand that was holding Spike’s leash.'

Where's the beach everyone's been talking about?

As soon as Spike had finished, I bent down in my white t-shirt to pick up his mess with a plastic bag. His post-poop skidding routine had completely slipped my mind. I was hunched over and diligently reaching for the pile as the pieces of dirt zinging off his paws began hitting me in the face, chest and leg! The couple watched.

With two leashes in one hand and a bag of poop in the other, I couldn’t wipe my face, shirt or legs. As I picked up Moose’s mess, the man calmly leaned over the balcony and asked in a southern twang, “What breed are them there animals?”

Feeling like the featured goat in a clown routine, I told him they were West Highland Terriers, at which point he began telling me how his friend uses Westies to chase moles off his property.

Perhaps they laughed after I left, but they spoke with me as though we’d bumped into each other on a sidewalk. At least for the duration of the conversation, I didn’t feel like a dirt-splattered fool catering to two oblivious poop-churners.

Somehow, the man and woman had, most graciously, managed to suspend my reality.

Curse the Speed of Life

We were parked beside his high school earlier this week; now his former high school. It wouldn’t be so bad if his leaving high school only signified the passage of five years of his life as a boy and a student, but it also means I’ve aged five years.

He’s finished high school, he’s as tall as I am and he’s nearly got his driver’s license. Curse the speed of life!

Like his mother, he’s not really a muser, nevertheless, as we sat in the car, I tortured him with questions. His fondest memories are attached to Secondary Four. He says what he’ll remember most are his friends. Through high school, he would come home with lively tales of the nutty antics of his buddies and classmates. He described the quality of his teachers through high school as “random”; pointing-out he was as likely to get an under-appreciated gem, as a lump of coal. He consistently made honor roll.

He’s a great athlete and has been from a young age. Where athletic attributes are concerned, Susan and I like to say he got the best of both of us. Truth be told, Susan graduated high school with the school board’s David Baillie Award for Female Athlete of the Year, something that, at sixteen, I could have only dreamt about.

While Tristan was always one of first to be chosen by peers for teams, I was always one of the last, if I was chosen at all! He would always be on the court for the final, crucial minutes of a game, while I would always be on the bench. Some things never change - sigh.

Just as it has always saved me, music saved me in high school. My first year of high school, I was a shrimpy, twelve year old quasi-bookworm with orthopedic shoes and a briefcase in tow.

Drums lifted me above the masses. By grade nine, I was signing autographs after school concerts and students would gather in the music room at lunch to watch the drum battles I had with classmate, Allan Schlaer. Even I would enjoy watching Allan play the solo from Edgar Winter’s “Frankenstein”.

As teachers go, I, like Tristan, had dazzling gems and outright lumps. My memories of high school aren’t so fond that I’ve ever felt compelled to attend reunions, but, hey, I survived.

Fortunately, Tristan did better than that.

Blinky Sees All

Growing up, while her young classmates had visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads, I’m convinced Susan had visions of heated leather seats. Late last month, her vision finally came true.

Heated leather seats were actually third on her SUV wish list, after V6 and 4X4. She also landed, although not all these items were on the wish list, chrome mags, sunroof, leather-wrap steering wheel, heated mirrors and running boards!

When we decided we were financially ready to explore the possibility of getting a new SUV, Tristan and I were assigned the task of scoping-out the possibilities. It’s fair to say Susan dreads the haggling and discussion that typically surrounds dealership visits. With unbridled zeal, my son and I dove in to the dirty work.

Tristan and the salesman certainly seemed to hit it off; in fact, at one point, the sales guy talked about putting a desk next to his, so the two of them could do business together!

Our discussions seemed to go exceptionally well and, lo and behold, the dealership had the vehicle of her dreams right there on its parking lot! Karma, indeed! Trying to remain guarded, we headed out to take a peek. It was black with custom chrome dual mufflers. By the time we’d finished at the dealership, we were giddy with exitement and pride at how quickly we had nailed down Susan’s dream vehicle. Her wish list sparkled with promise. We e-mailed pictures to her at work. Rather inevitably, with the two of us excitedly skipping, hopping and bobbing around her, her initially subdued state began to escalate until she, too, was eager to finalize a purchase.

That weekend, we took her to the parking lot to see her prospective SUV. Within the first thirty seconds, she looked at us with considerable reproach and exclaimed, “But it’s not four-wheel drive!” At first we waved off her claim, dismissed it outright. Then, reluctantly and dumbfounded, as we stared at the paper hanging on the inside of the passenger window, our huge gaffe began to dawn on us. Sure enough, it was not 4X4! What had we done wrong? How could we have allowed such a colossal oversight? What wickedly insidious magic had the salesman woven?

You could hear the air, loudly, steadily, sometimes with a disgusting flapping sound, jetting from our badly burst balloon! We had been shamed, humbled and humiliated. To this day, we don’t know how we neglected to secure the number-two prerequisite on Susan’s wish list. We still have a hard time talking about it.

We are clearly not the observant, attentive, all-seeing fellows we think we are; alas, it gets worse.

In the Flintstones episode about “Dripper” the sealosaurus, one of the villain’s henchmen is named “Blinky” because of his terrible eyesight! We would sometimes refer to Susan as “Blinky” because she often didn’t see things that we had noticed at a glance.

This past winter I called home from work one stormy night. Tristan began telling me how the howling wind had dropped a tree branch into the neighbor’s front yard. He said the branch was the size of a tree and as tall as the neighbor’s roof! As the storm raged outside, Susan insisted the tree had always been there. (You can see this coming can't you?) After replaying a variety of scenarios together, Tristan and I emphatically agreed we did not have the faintest recollection of any tree next door! I vowed to examine the tree when I got home late that night.

As I walked up the street from the train, the tree branch did, indeed, look quite foreign. I walked onto the neighbor’s lawn and tried to push over the branch, gently at first and then with considerable effort. Then, for good measure, I tried to pull it straight out of the groud where it stood, spear-like and firm. The tree is still standing there today! It is a full-fledged, card-carrying tree and always was; only, why had we never noticed it before?

Now, when Susan sees things, observes things, notices things, or disputes our observations, conclusions or factual statements and declarations, we silently and most deferentially, bow our heads and dare not to doubt, for Blinky sees all.

Stellar Steve

I’m putting the new album by Steve Hill, his seventh, among my top five favorite blues records. It’s titled “Solo Recordings Volume One”. The album has it all, fire, smoke, smouldering coals, silk and rain clouds! It wails, it’s giddy, it cooks and it cries. It's electric, it's acoustic and it showcases his versatility.

The album is truly a collection of solo recordings. Steve is alone for each song, with a guitar in his hands and instruments played with his feet. In most cases, his feet are playing a bass drum and hi-hat. In other cases, for example, the Cream re-make, “Politician”, he has a coffee cup filled with change, taped to his boot.

He actually stood in the recording studio playing guitar and singing, at the same time that his feet played bass drum and hi-hat! He confessed there were sometimes balance issues, when he’d occasionally stumble backwards! It’s a cool way to do an album and the result is an irrepressibly pure performance and listening experience.

Steve was at Global Montreal studios yesterday to tape this weekend’s edition of “Focus Montreal”. It’s his second appearance on the show. I talked to him about the album, his busy summer concert schedule and he offered viewers a highly memorable performance of his soulful ballad, “Out of Phase”.

I'm always so excited to be able to talk to the great guests on "Focus Montreal", but when they're kind enough to agree to a picture, I usually end up looking like the biggest goof in the world!

We gave away an autographed copy of Steve's album on the air. After the interview, he signed the album, we chatted a bit and he left. Only then did I notice that he'd signed the album, "Thanks Richard, Steve Hill”. I couldn’t give that to a viewer! Steve had been telling me moments before that he’s hooked on vinyl and had planned to head into HMV below our office to see what records he could find.

I grabbed a “sharpie”, ran down to the music store, found him, asked him not to leave, bought a copy of “Solo Recordings Volume One” and dashed back to the spot where I'd left him! By the time I got back to the record rack, there were others waiting for an autograph! He happily signed the albums for all of us.

Steve’s an easygoing guy and a supremely talented guitarist and singer, who’s played with the likes of BB King, Jimmy Vaughn, Buddy Guy and Metallica.

If you have an appreciation of the blues, check out “Focus Montreal” this Sunday, or buy a copy of the album. If you win it on our show, I can certainly vouch for the autograph's authenticity! While I savor “Solo Recordings Volume One”, I can't help but eagerly await “Volume Two”.

A Thoroughly Odious Sound

I slowly lifted my head, unsure of what I was hearing. The sound that woke me Monday morning seemed to be blaring outside the house. It was the kind of sound that might have blasted across the unfortunate landscape of Chernobyl as the reactor melted all those years ago.

Either way, as I stared at my clock, I came to the conclusion the authorities were trying to warn us about something. There had been a large police operation in the neighborhood the day before and perhaps this sound warned the operation was continuing. Then again, it might be a tornado warning.

I decided it was time to take the necessary precautions. I sat up, pulled on shorts and a t-shirt, but, as I started to step away from the bed, the nasty sound suddenly and inexplicably, stopped. I went to the window and looked out. I saw nothing.

Concerned, I groggily stumbled down the hall and, entering my son’s room, I asked, “Hey, Tristan, did you hear that sound?” Upon hearing my voice, he seeemd to suddenly wake and then, reaching for his iPhone, he looked at the time.

In an instant, it all became clear. The thoroughly odious sound that woke me must have been his alarm clock, which he turned off, so he could drift-off.

Realizing I had been awakened and duped by his alarm, I spun on my heel and grumpily muttered, “Time to get up.” Slightly frazzled, I wondered what inhuman corporate clown would add such a hideous noise to the list of sound effects available on its smart phone?

Stupid phone.

The worst part is that it didn’t even wake him up! He was merrily going back to sleep!

Later that morning, I told him what I thought was happening. Of course, he shared my traumatic experience with my wife and together, they apparently had a great laugh.

The sound I thought was coming from the window was insidiously travelling down the hall. We’ve been leaving our bedroom door open to let the air conditioning flow in. As a result, the same infernal sound woke me yesterday and today.

I asked him what name the iPhone assigns that particular sound. He said it was simply called, “Alarm”. I could offer a much more colorful label.

As I drove him to school this morning, I admitted the sound woke me up again today, which prompted an almost gracious offer on his part, to change the sound.

To what; an air raid siren? Uh, no thanks.

The Audit Adventure

It was, appropriately, Friday the 13th when I got the message from Canada Revenue Agency. I was instructed to call them back and when I did, Monday April 16th , they claimed I’d been randomly selected for an audit.

There are approximately 33 million Canadians in this country and I was randomly selected for an audit! Go figure.

The Revenue Canada Agency flak generously offered to conduct the audit at our home. How sweet. No, thanks! Who in their right mind would want an audit done at their home? I said it would be fine at their office and so the date was set for May 8th at noon, at Revenue Canada offices on Jean Beraud Avenue in Laval.

They sent a letter dated April 17th, confirming, “Audit of income tax return for 2009”. In the letter, I was instructed to bring the kitchen sink and all relevant receipts for it. The letter further instructed me to bring all sales invoices, sales reconciliations, shipping records, all business bank account statements, duplicate deposit slips, cancelled cheques and bank account reconciliations, all credit card statements, lines of credit statements and loan/mortgage documents, including the repayment schedules and purposes of the loans and on and on. I was instructed to also bring all personal bank account statements, bank books, transaction records, cancelled cheques and bank account reconcilations. Blah, blah, blah, signed Tina Frazori, Audit Division, Canada Revenue Agency.

Never one to let a wildly fun opportunity slip past untested, Susan decided to accompany me; good thing, too, because, as it turns out, a “Richard Dagenais Audit” really means a “Richard Dagenais Family Audit”. Susan had to provide relevant documents and Revenue Canada insisted on seeing Tristan’s bank account! It seems chance had deemed us possible cheaters and now, we had to be ruled out as possible cheaters.

When we arrived, we were led into an “interview room” where we were interrogated for just over an hour. “Audit”, I learned, is just a shorter word for “investigation”.

We were interrogated in great detail about earnings, accounts, savings, investments, properties, spending habits, costs, lifestyle and we were asked us about our non-existent lottery winnings, vacation homes, planes, boats, snowmobiles and exotic excursions. We were asked to sign forms granting Revenue Canada access to bank accounts, statements and loans. Somewhere along the line, I had apparently managed to achieve multinational status!

I admitted I had a safety deposit box with nothing in it.

As the impersonal grilling went on, I began to seethe internally. The morning television show where I had been working as a feature reporter was cancelled in 2008. The next year proved very challenging for us. Through good fortune and hard work, I managed to avoid going on employment insurance, found enough freelance work, but still cashed RRSP’s to help pay bills.

Toward the end the hour, no longer able to contain my indignation, I finally blurted out, “Do you catch many high-rolling cheaters by doing this? We’re just people who were lucky to get through that year!” I went on, “I find Revenue Canada’s complete lack of humanity indecent and disgusting.” Then, curtly, I demanded, “Are you done? Can we leave now?”

Susan, perhaps rightly, called my outburst, "unnecessary".

People who lose their jobs and, not just me, should be given a break by the government. As a taxpayer, I would happily subscribe to a program that gave earnest, hard-working, newly-jobless Canadians a break. Tax bills could be forgiven, RRSP’s savings paid back, or a few months of their mortgage could be paid by the government. A little humanity could go a long way to encouraging people to continue contributing any way they can. Fewer EI claimants would be a good thing.

Finally, we were instructed to pick up our tax papers at Revenue Canada offices on Wednesday of this week. Susan went in to sign for our material while I waited in the car. The letter in the file said simply, “We confirm that no changes will be made to income previously reported.”

Thanks for that.