Matthew Taylor

It’s early Monday morning.
I am still apologetic for the torrential tweed jacket down pour I unwittingly inflicted upon the entire population of Denver, Colorado due to my poor clothing choice last Friday (see Weather You Wear It or Not.) Eager to make amends, as promised, I slip on my one and only Hawaiian shirt.
The flimsy garment transforms me. I feel immense, god-like power surge through my body. I look in the mirror and say in a steely tone, ”Alignak, it’s me and you against the world.”
I am confident I made the weather turn. Sunshine, clear skies, a balmy Pacific breeze playfully rustling the first leaves of spring; all of this, a response to my wiser choice of attire.
I now control of the weather.
Confidently I throw open the curtains.
I am met by crystal clear blue sky, brilliant sunshine and…a dusting of snow!?
Snow, that’s just not right.
Maybe I need a better shirt…

An unrelenting April down pour.
Chilled sheets of water fill the void between turbulent grey and sodden earth.
Any hope of a reprieve has long since vanished.
The rain, the grey, the chill seem here to stay.

Growing up in England I got used to day after day of torrential rain, but this is not what I signed up for in Denver, Colorado. After much pondering, I discovered the cause for this unusual occurrence.
Me.
I am dressed like an English country gentleman. My excessive use of autumnal tones topped with an English let’s-encourage-some-shitty-weather tweed jacket, is enough to disrupt the weather patterns in any region.

This is more common than you may think, Hawaii had completely average weather before everybody started to wear large flower print shirts. Now look at the place.
I’ll prove it. On Monday I am going to wear a Hawaiian shirt.
I’ll let you know how it goes.

As a child growing up in England with my two sisters it was common practice for parents to call their children’s private body parts by cute little nicknames to avoid, heaven forbid, having to use the proper term.  My family was no exception.  I had a ­­­­willy and was flanked by a couple of Veronicas, one older, one younger.  My friends had a nina, a twinkle, a who-who and a dingle.  I’d heard of other kids sporting a suzie, a hoo-ha, a nah-nee and a ding-dong.  At school I met a peter, a pee-pee, a wiener, goolies and girlie-bits. By the time I was ten I’d even heard of a weenis, a tally whacker, lady business, the boys at the ballpark and a meat n’ two veg’.  As if there isn’t enough for a young child to learn just starting out in life it seems unfair that we complicate their early years by introducing artificial names, which just have to be awkwardly unlearned later. 

Once I had my own children times had changed and now it appeared to be the norm for us to tell our children that a vagina is in fact called a vagina and a penis, a penis.  I thought this simplified things.

One hot summer day as my seven year-old daughter and five year-old son were roughhousing at the local neighborhood playground Maitland accidently kicked Alastair between the legs.  He crumpled to the ground, hands clasping the injured parties, experiencing that intense pain which can only be experienced if you possess testicles and are unlucky enough to have them kicked.  Your throat is instantly dry, your head dizzy with a hint of nausea.  An agonizing cramping ache crawls deep into the pit of your stomach.  Shear, steady, unyielding pain that stubbornly refuses to pass, lingers for what seems like eternity as if to scold you for putting the crown jewels in harms way. 

Alastair rolled over, his face contorted. He looked up at his apologetic and confused sister.  His lips parted as he uttered a single sentence, “Maitland,” he said in a high pitched, pained voice, “you kicked me right in my Ball’gina!”