www.nathanweselake.com

The fragile psyche of Nathan Weselake regarding his manliness as exposed by the annual ordeal of putting plastic on his #$%ing old windows.

There is nothing which makes me feel less like I imagine a man ought to feel than putting plastic on old windows.

_{^{- I have notions that someone else who has been through this process 8 times before (1908 house, 1959 house, and 1916 house) would have become more efficient at it.  Less blinds crashing down on heads, less fingers being burnt by the heat gun, less innocent questions from their children regarding why there is so much blood, chaos and tools necessary to put plastic on windows.}}  

_{^{- I have notions that somewhere there is a man who is successful enough career wise that he can actually afford to purchase new windows instead of multiple packs of window plastic from Wal-Mart at 11.95 a pop.}}  

_{^{- I have notions that some men have enough 'devil may care' machismo to not even flinch at the extra costs involved in heating a house without plasticing their windows.}}

I however am not such a man.  

And I have three more windows to go.

And I'd like to get them done before the Saturday night service.  

This only gives me 6 hours.

A Rant 8 Years In The Making.

At the end of every bible college semester or short term mission trip that anyone under 25 goes on, can there be a mandatory week tagged on the end where someone helps these people refocus on, and maybe learn to love, their local church?

In my time in ministry, I have rarely been more frustrated than I have been by young people who go away somewhere and return "on fire" but don't do a single thing to spread that around except pine for the worship night in the dorm, the late night prayer meeting, the handing out of food to people, the whatever it is that was sooooooo cool that it MUST be recreated and is unlike absolutely anything else happening anywhere else in the whole of Christendom. 

Certainly a desired by-product of a year of bible college or 2 months of missions is to have the participant emerge with a deeper love for the things Christ loves? If you are in a place where these programs are facilitated, do the local church a favor and spend a good chunk of time prepping graduates for ministry back home and reminding them of Christ's love for his broken, sputtering, and ultimately glorious local church.

That is all.

A Love (His)Story.

Acacia sang in WPS spring concert tonight.  

Afterwards, a boy in her class wanders over while she is talking to me and very softly pats her on the head.

Doesn't say a word.  Just pats her on the head twice and stands there looking terrified.

It was a time warp for me.  I remember grade 2.  The girl's name was Carmen. How the heck do you let Carmen know you absolutely adore her?  That sometimes you actually physically ache because you miss her over the summer.  That you wish your parents were friends so you could hang out.  

You can't.  And you don't.  But you do have one option that sort of makes sense in your little grade 2 boy brain.

YOU CAN PAT HER ON THE HEAD.

Ah young fella, does my heart good to see you heading down this fantastic path of awkward misguided woo I am so very familiar with.  Let me tell you what is in store.

A few years hence, you will find yourself after school one night when the object of your affection is not there.  But you see she has left her "inside shoes" on top of her locker.  This gives you an idea and so in a fit of misguided strategic thinking, you will take those shoes and write confessions of love on the bottom rubber sole of those shoes.  You will write confessions so powerful and transparent on the bottom rubber sole of these shoes they would make a drunken Italian poet blush.  Then you will imagine her taking her shoes, and noticing the writing, and she will not tell a soul about her soles.  What she will do however, is look at you with such a blistering look of passion that you suspect you are a mere recess bell away from your first taste of non relative female lip.   

Later on that same evening you will imagine a different scenario.  In your dreams, you will see hundreds of teenage girls gathered around shoes pointing and giggling about the notes on the shoes.  You will not sleep much because you need to get up good and freaking early and make up an excuse to get to school quick so you can grab her "inside shoes" and scrub the soles of them in the boys washroom until your confessions are turned into massive ink smudges and then replace them where she left them before she arrives.  You will sit silently as she gets in trouble for leaving blue foot prints on the carpet.

Several years later, in another misguided effort to separate yourself from the pack and win her heart you will leave frozen peas in her mailbox.  So many other guys do the flowers, the candy, the mix tape, dinner and a movie.  Not you, you are different.  You take peas from your mother's freezer and attach a note letting the object of your affection know where they came from.  And then you will just wait for her to respond.  The response proves to take some time but you imagine she is on the phone with her friends laughing about your creative genius and using phrases like "I think he might be the one."  You wait by the phone for the evening and it doesn't ring. You never imagined she might not call to thank you for the peas.  It takes awhile to sink in. 

And you may despair.  Because the patting on the head didn't work.  The shoe thing was misguided.  And the peas thing, well, let's just come out and say it, the pea thing was doomed from the start.  It establishes you're different but you were seeking to be different in a cool way, not in the possibly in need of psychiatric evaluation and diligent patient follow up kind of way. 

But do not despair, my little head patting friend.  

You have courage and creativity.  See, you aren't just patting her head.  You are stepping up to home plate stark naked at a sold out Wrigley field, you couldn't find a bat so you grabbed a leg of lamb, and you my friend are swinging that leg of lamb like you can knock every pitch out of the park. 

This is why I am rooting for you, you little head patting freak.  Anyone who swings that hard is a winner in my book. 

Plus, courage and creativity are necessary ingredients for love.  In fact, if you possess the first two the third is a given.

An Old Lady Thought I Was HOT!!!

Back in the day, my friend Dave and I were no strangers to female attention - let me tell you.  And if you don't believe me ask anyone (anyone = only Dave).

Waitresses would flirt.  Smiles would be exchanged.  Phone numbers were offered.  Men would look at the sidewalk in shame as we passed.  If walking with their girlfriends, they would squeeze them a little closer out of fear of loss.

But that was then.  Current reality is we drive minivans and no one of the fairer sex pays any attention to us.

Except at Stella's Cafe on Saturday.  Chatted with a guy in his 50's and his mom and when they got up to leave.  She said,

"You guys are both VERY ATTRACTIVE MEN!"

YEAH BABY - STILL GOT IT!

Important to note, at her age, she would have seen a lot of men and so would likely have really high standards.

(Dave apologetically held up his wedding ring.)

The Intentional Rebranding of Nathan Weselake.

Watched "Australia" over the weekend and was positively smitten by the many and varied scenes of Hugh Jackman at his unshaven and sweaty best.  Such was the state of my envy that I intend to intentionally shape my public image to more closely mirror that of High Jackman's character in the aforementioned "Australia".  I imagine myself standing with legs firmly planted, torso slightly twisted in a manner accenting a chiseled abdomen, piecing eyes burning holes in a horizon promising even more personal pain, but never ever backing down or wilting.  

Much of this rebranding will be my own doing.  However, I know you at home are wondering to yourself, "what can I do personally to help Nathan reinvent himself along the lines of Hugh Jackman in the movie "Australia?"'

Thank you for asking, here is what you can do to help:

1. When I am not around but my name comes up, say things about me like:

"Women love him and men fear him."

"mmmm MMMM"

"If courage and tenderness got together to have a baby...."

"Who can tame him?"

"I'd love to have an ounce of his (fill in the blank here with manly virtue of choice)."

"I wish he was here now..."

"He is like a cage lion in heat."

Incidentally, these are all things Tamara has long been coached to say and has stoically refused.

2. Address me by a cool nickname.

Hugh Jackman, in the movie "Australia" was called "The Drover".  In my life I have had some fine nicknames but none sufficiently masculine enough to be recalled in the current "rebranding".  I have been called, "Spaghetti legs", "Stumpy", "Pinchy Winchy", "Chigger", "The Velvet Fog", "Nater Tater Tot Bot Chubba Chubba Dot Dot", none of these evoke the sought after image.

I'd prefer one word.  

Something like: "Cranks" or "Granite" or a location like "Downtown".  I would certainly be open to something reflecting my Metis heritage but since my own awareness of the heritage is sketchy I am left with the possibilities of Nathan "The Canoe" Weselake, Nathan "Bannock" Weselake, or Nathan "The Riel Deal" Weselake.  

3. In group situations, nod your heads and give knowing looks to each other as if all poignantly aware of some virtue of mine you appreciate but cannot express in words. 

Occasionally someone can try to verbally capture what all are feeling by saying something like, "Whadda ya gonna do about dis guy????" and then shake his or her head some more.

I will, in the manner modeled by Hugh Jackman in the movie "Australia", strike an appropriately humble yet sexy demeanor as if appreciating your dilemma but yet unable to do much to help the situation.  The dilemma exists because "Cranks" is what he is.

Thank you for doing your part in this.  I couldn't make the changes necessary without your help.

It truly does take a village to raise a lunatic 

I hate looking for artichokes.

I can never find those stupid artichokes.  20 minutes of pacing the aisles at Sobey's sweating buckets in my 600 fill North Face with kids in tow. Increasingly agitated and mumbling angrily under my breath...

The only positive: I did not ask anyone where they were...yup....I found those suckers all by myself and so I am still THE MAN.

It made me feel better.

its high time i wrote an entire post in small letters like e e cummings and with no punctuation either so readers are free to inhale or exhale whenever they discern respiration necessary or effective the cumulative effect of such freedom no doubt resulting in hermeneutical variance of the highest degree however ambiguity while so often cumbersome in this case i suspect will be found profitable since when you really get down to it the only possible thing that could salvage this post and keep it from being the veritable time waster it appears to be turning out to be for both writer and reader alike is if it decidedly turns a corner towards the end and find itself on the brink and teetering on the edge of breakthrough which perhaps it is now and i hope you are waiting for it and not frustrated because the leap is about to happen and i guess what it comes down to is that i really want to ask but do not want to ask because of the inherent vulnerability in asking a question whose content clearly points to internal pain yet unresolved query being then why are some people so mean.