I really never thought this'd happen:My mom rang me this evening. After I said "hullo," she briskly got to the point: "Why can't I be your friend on Facebook?" I had rejected her request only minutes ago, one that had baffled me because I had long ago patiently explained the social sh . . . (More)

My dad used to keep his wallet in the back pocket of his pants. We all told him this was a retarded idea, but he insisted the wallet was so big, stuffed with about a month's worth of gas and grocery receipts, that his ass would know if it was gone. This delusion is one of his many quin . . . (More)

3: When I was six, my grandmother, who was visiting us, was robbed. She was not mugged, as she was not hurt or threatened with violence. She had been walking me, my neighbour, and my brother (who must have then been four at the time) home in the afternoon after school. She was a tiny . . . (More)

I am, when I stop to think about it, quite thankful that my parents are not more forceful about my choice of friends and miscellaneous companions. They are Chinese immigrants, and as my friends'  families have amply demonstrated, they could be far more conservative, and far, far more tyra . . . (More)

"Your parents are swingers," Jon Stewart's voice says. "What?" I say in disbelief. I turn the corner. Light floods over me; my mother is sitting up serenely on the far side of an enormous bed, modestly covered up to her underarms by sheets and a butter yellow comforter. "Hi, honey.""Hi." My& . . . (More)

On August 7th, the day after my twentieth birthday, my family dined out for the special occasion at a Markham restaurant. An immediate fondness sprung for the restaurant's name -- which will be revealed to you in due time -- upon examination of the paper chopstick wrappers. I made a mental note . . . (More)

It wasn't all that funny, really. Doctor: [Sees Wesley] Is that your son? Me: Haha. No. That's my brother. Doctor: But you're so old and he's so young! Me: Haha. Charming. Doctor: Your mother must've been a very busy woman! Me: Haha. Yeah. Terribly. . . . (More)

Him: [Lying on the floor, yells] Wesley, I can smell you from across the room. Wesley: Haha, no way! You're just boasting! Him: No, I'm not. Wait. [Looks at me] What does 'boasting' mean? Me: [Waiting for popcorn to pop] It means bragging. Wait. [I look at him] You're seventeen ye . . . (More)

Little Wesley and I over pizza, fries, and chicken strips in the Ontario Science Centre cafeteria: Me: So where are you going on this school field trip? High Park? Him: Yeah! We're going to have a picnic! And go to a petting zoo! Me: Sweet. What else are you guys doing to do? Him: . . . (More)

He's eight years old today. (Happy birthday, Wesley, AKA Monkeypoophead.)