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Friday, March 20, 2015

Fwd: Got any change man?

Where I live, just outside of Vancouver Canada, we have experienced in recent years a large influx of Asian residents. Wonderful, quiet, neighbours that have brought their businesses with them from Asia. Businesses plastered with hand written signs all in Chinese (no English). A large part of the residents here would like to see English on the signs too. City hall won't act because,…..? well we are and have become the minority. Offending the Chinese population is political suicide! 
Maybe where you live you might have experienced the same thing. The following is my take on it.

Thanks for following my blog
Bob Niles

                                          Got any Change Man?

The definition for awkward is heading to the bank with your big bucket of loose change, to turn it into real cash, and encountering a needy homeless person who's looking for just that. "Got any change man?" He asks.  Awkward!
I respond with an extended "Ahhhhhh......". While reasoning to my self, I saved all his change for me! I didn't really plan giving it to you. I carried it around in my pocket for a day, then I had it sit all across my dresser for a week,....a month. Then I gathered it all up in a large jar and let it age and lose worth through inflation. Then at a set time (the wife gets tired of dusting around all the jars or you figure you've got enough change to do something really big with it) you carry your now penniless shiny change to the closest bank you know.
  And still! "Got any change man?"
You turn away from the wanting person, and from under your coat you dig through your Kentucky fried bucket bank looking for nickels. Finding two quarters, no three, you reach back, carefully not exposing its origin, and hand him his 1/2 cup of coffee at 7-11. It's not all he wants but it's something.
"Thanks for the change man." you manage to make out through the deafening jingle of change as you waddle away feeling cheap and wishing he hadn't asked.
Change. I don't  like it as a noun or a verb (change, (verb)..make or become different).
Stay with me, the jets about to take off. I'm getting around to the language bylaw.
Where was I?....Oh ya, change. Living in Richmond for the past 51 yrs. I have been given to a lot of change. And many of Richmond's new residents saw much change in their countries and found it was unacceptable. So you picked up sticks and changed your country and home. Big change! You looked around the world and picked Richmond as a city you trusted enough to move your home and business to. So you bought my buddy's parents home and built a beautiful mansion on it. And then went on to remodel the old neighbourhood I grew up in. Plus a few more.
To realize change in your life, I had to changed my life. More and more of the Asian community chose Richmond as the years went by as an ideal location to live. More and more of what I remember as Richmond (the Richmond you first fell in love with) had to changed to fit it's/your/our needs.
I could go on and on but I think you know,.....'ya ya got it, we asked for change. You're tired of handing out change.  You think it's all our fault wanting change. Move on.'
Okay I'm moving on. Just as long as you know that change is mine to give. You moved here and were happy ( but with growing pains) you did. But it can feel at times like the guy with all the change available to him, doesn't get what he really wants because he's given all his change before he gets where he's going.
"Got any change man? I need change." So I hand out some to you. Then I turn around and its more change needed from me. Then a little further someone else needs change.      And to you who need change it's really not all you want. I should hand out more but over the length of my journey I've handed out all I have. Now I'm saying "Got any change man? I need change. I can't read the signs. How about a little splash of English on them." and you're walking by giving excuses. "Sorry man either you or me need to get educated and take inclusion classes. So I don't need to give you change."
"Come on just a little change?" What you give me isn't going to do much good. It's like the three quarters that really can't get you anything, but it's a start to something. I didn't try to belittle you when you needed change.
Weeks go by, months and then years and I'm still asking for change. City hall gets involved and decides,....well, it decides it doesn't want to get involved so we'll have a workshop down by the river  with learned speakers and 2014 council hopefuls, Mayor Brodie and people with name tags on.
And it was proven after several hours that if you were looking for change you'd have better luck in front of the liquor store on a Monday morning.
 Our mayor believes mandating language bylaws not necessary.... No change from him
UBC professor Dan Hiebert said four other places in the world  enacted a sign bylaw.... Somebody else got change.
2014 council candidate Henry Yao supports giving change on language bylaws....But no change given yet
Esoteric questions about Chinese only signs had to be proven so change can happen.
Notions were supported of a sign bylaw to enforce English on signs...... Maybe change.
Another 2014 council candidate Jerome Dickey opposed an English mandatory bylaw. He pointed out Richmond culture has become disconnected and wanted to spend money on it. So it looks like he needs more change from me.
So I guess, they we elected, are saving our change till later. They'll just dust around it and wait till there's enough change to do something big with it, like an election. I wish they were as careful with my tax dollars than they are with their change sometimes. It's like they have a big bucket of change on their way to city hall and I'm sitting there with my hand out and they ask "Got any change man?". Awkward!

Bob Niles

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Fwd: Heaven Can Wait

                                            Heaven Can Wait
                                            (but not for long)

Yes I'm ready to go to Heaven, but I don't want to go today! I mean, if all you guys are going today,... Sure I guess I could move a few things around, cancel a few appointments and make it. But only if you're all going.
I don't want to go by myself just to wait for the rest of us. Like the one they send on ahead to the restaurant to let them know a few billion people are on their way. "Look under Earth or human population. I'm sure there's a reservation. Sorry we're late.----Oh just 15 years?"
Now Heaven is a wonderful place. Streets of gold, no sorrow or pain filled with our loved ones who have gone on  before. Crazy old loved ones who pull the old surprised to see you joke. "You'd better hide from St. Peter till I figure how you got here!" Them kinda crazy relatives.
Heaven is our final goal. Unless of course you're a minister of the gospel. For you it's an eternity of unemployment. You'll have to find another job suited for your qualifications. Maybe it would be giving away real Faberge Eggs over the phone. "No such thing! It's all a big lie!" They'll say.
Heaven is full of unknowns that make it a big mystery. It's like booking a vacation sight unseen that you heard good things about from old people. Things to incredible to imagine that make you think it can't be true. "All inclusive except for the motor sports?"
But then there's the air travel I'm queasy about. I'm not a good flyer. I don't want to arrive at Heavens Gatepp with a bad case of the trots. What kind of candidate for Heaven am I going to be? All sweaty with sticky palms and running a fever.  Trying to get through security so I can get into Heaven to hit the first throne I see. St. Peter will send me to secondary screening thinking I'm trying to bring it with me.
I thought I'd stay here on earth as long as I can. I'm still healthy, somewhat sound of mind.  And with my ability to drive after supper I'd be a real catch in the old folks home someday.
And besides the kids had me make a bucket list I gotta do before I go. They thought I would have things I would like to do before my flight.. So I made a list of 10 things that I thought they would want me to say. But only one of which I want to do. And that is to dance at my 100th birthday party with my wife. I said wife because all the hot babes (not that she ain't hot!) I see on TV now won't be hot by then. Plus that would mean she's still health too. I don't like seeing half an old couple. And it wouldn't be me, the wife usually survives and is left behind. Which is fine because old guys don't do well on their own. You'll see us walking around town with a dog older than we are. Living in an apartment that smells like urine and Ben-Gay. We fill our days writing letters complaining to anyone who's doing anything new or different. Handing out advice that always starts with 'Back when I was young........!'
It's the ladies that handle the loss of a spouse much better. Ladies form committees at churches and halls to bake, sew, knit and quilt. Ladies stay in touch with all the families and listen to their ups and downs without giving the 'Back when I was young' spiel. Ladies mostly stay off the roads and let the old Ford sit in the garage and become valuable again. Old ladies seem to do all the right things.
When a guy dies by himself and goes to Heaven I bet it's the worst run down spot there. It's populated with just old men waiting for their wife's. A spot filled with just grumpy old men waiting for their Myrtle or Effie because nobody can do it right except them.
It's the junky part of Heaven with dirt roads all lined with log cabins and double wide trailers and an RV in every yard.  In the back of the lot is a garage bigger than the house, with walls filled with every tool imaginable. And there is no empty outlines of tools missing because Gordon next door and every guy on the block has every tool too. Nobody cuts the grass cause nobody cares. The days pass sitting on the porch with Andy and Barney sharing an apple pie Aunt Bea sent over.
Every now and then you'll see a neighbor heading down the path toward The Gates.  He's off to meet up with his wife once again. We bid him a fond farewell  as we know he won't be back. His wife for sure has a different mansion in mind with which to spend eternity in. But, sometimes we are presently surprised and his wife  agrees to eternity in a double wide. But with a few additions. Curtains being the first.
Yes as we age we think about what's next. We've had friends and family go before us so you believe and have faith of a much better place. It's a Heaven with your old dog or cat. A Heaven filled with the lives of the very young that we're taken before their time really began. A Heaven that allows healing to the mentally and physically challenged that were unable to receive it here on earth. A Heaven that you've chased all your life trying to buy. But in the process lost your family in the haze of many lost years. A Heaven that's not attained  in a personal bomb blast. A Heaven far from the pains and worries of earth. An eternal home,....till St. Peter finds out you're there!
Quick hide!

Bob Niles

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Fwd: How I Spent my Spring Break

Begin forwarded message:

Subject: How I Spent my Spring Break
From: Bob Niles <>
Date: March 11, 2015 at 8:09:17 AM PDT

            How I Spent my Spring Break
                  by Gabriella Griffin gr.3 div.4

We got in our car and drove and drove and drove and then we got gas and went to the bathroom and drove some more. You see it's all because we were going to see my grandma and grandpa who is now retarded. They sold their brick house with the way cool tree in the backyard in Vancouver and now live in a tin house in Arizona mom says. We stopped for gas a few more times and stayed in a motel. Dad said that's let'om spelt backwards and mom hit him with her elbow. She laughed and dad opened the door to a room that smelt funny. I got my own bed by the bathroom. Next day we found grandma and grandpas new house. A man who lives in the smallest house I've ever seen told my dad what number to look for to find them. Dad told me everybody there is retarded and the man lives in the little house to stop people so nobody escapes. Dad got hit again and I saw someone drive a little car out the gate past the guard. All the tin houses look kinda the same with old people wearing name tags. We found the number and their name was on the house so they wouldn't forget. Grandma was home and grandpa was off playing, riding his bike somewhere. She said he had to be home for supper but he might be at the wreck center. We looked but it wasn't wrecked. He was doing exercises with other old people all wearing name tags. I guess they don't know who they are now and they can't exercise very well. He knew who I was though! He cried when he hugged me so tight and let me wear his bike helmet. I guess he's sad. He showed us the swimming pool I could use if I wanted to but everybody in the pool was old wearing hats jumping up and down playing Simon Says. Maybe later I said and squeezed his finger twice. That's code we made up for I love you. He squeezed back 500 times. He pushed his giant tricycle back to his house with the same last name. He didn't have a yard I could play in but I told him he did a good job painting the rocks in the front yard green. Grandma had put on a pretty dress and said if we could go right now we could get the early bird for dinner. Grandpa said they have the early bird every day and for some reason he said today was a special day and we didn't have to have the early bird. Must taste awful! Grandpa showed me all his neat stuff but it wasn't as much as he use to have in the brick house. He didn't have my favorite Indian arrow head anymore. We all squeezed into a taxi and snuck past the guard in his doll house. I guess he didn't know we could all get in a taxi. We drove to a fancy restaurant for a special dinner. I got to sit between grandma and grandpa at the table. Grandma said grandpa worked hard all his life for retardment. And if I worked hard I could be retarded too some day. I had ice cream for dessert and half of grandpas too. We stayed two more days and it was fun and boring and hot. When we left grandpa cried again he must be really sad cause he made me cry too. He said my pockets weren't very deep and for me to be careful. Everybody said it was good to see each other again and summer's not far away. I don't understand old people.
That night at the let'om when I was getting in the tub grandpas Indian arrow head fell out of my pants. Mom asked me how it got in my pocket. Maybe grandpa I said. He knew I like the story about how he found it. Maybe mom said. You're pockets aren't very deep. Mom when I become retardment I'm going to live with grandma and grandpa. Only I'm going to be that guy in the doll house. Then I'll let people out so they can visit their grandchildren.

Thursday, March 5, 2015

Fwd: I Wish I Could Love Bubbles Again

                         I Wish I Could Love Bubbles Again

bub-ble (bub/-l) n. a hollow globe of water or other liquid blown out with air or gas

It's no wonder my granddaughter loves bubbles so much. Imagine building a hollow globe of liquid soap, and then releasing it into a beautiful Summer day to dance but for a few moments on the whispering edges of a warm sunny breeze. To wonder at it's rainbow reflection on a surface so thin and fragile that it's viewed only but for a brief moment. Oh sure there's the occasional bubble that lives far beyond expectations. The one that floats past the tree over the fence into the neighbors yard, then it's slammed by a rouge breeze into a blue flannel shirt on old lady Griffins clothesline. You hail it as new world record holder as you dance with triumph. But this miracle is not mourned, others are produced as fast as you can breath in and out.
This small miracle that I have come to take for granted is not lost on her. She dances and laughs with each and every on she can. Each new bubble is a new friend. Each new bubble has a different character. Some bubbles are fat and heavy and sit down quick. "They don't like to dance." she giggles "They lost their breath too quick!" Some bubbles pop as soon as they're given the breath of life. "Boomers" she calls them. Most bubbles linger for awhile, dance a bit, blend in with the others and then they're gone....kind of like most our lives.
But a few bubbles become legends in song. She runs into the house (can't blow bubbles inside) and in a sing- song high-pitched soliloquy, some parts only audible to the dog, breathlessly recounts their plight.
She starts each story, and here I'm not 100% sure but the dog thinks so, with "Guess what?" Then dancing from one foot to the other she acts out the story of  'Floaty the Runaway Bubble.' "I blowed softly for like a real long time," pant pant puff (she always talks like she's just finished the one-hundred yard dash) "and then, and then I thought it was going to explode. But it didn't! It started to go up, and then it went down! And then almost clunked me on the head! And then it just flew over me!" pant puff pant pant puff, "then it almost landed in Charlottes pool! Then Scratchy chased it and almost caught it........but then it went up ( it's here you should try to imagine some sort of ballet move that looks like it might hurt because she's in that position) and just missed Daddys basketball hoop, and then guess what? (by this time the dogs howling) it popped, it just popped and disappeared!"
I watched as my granddaughter danced her story. A story that couldn't be accurately told without interpretive arm and leg movements. Her constantly moving limbs match her hazel brown eyes that move to even the slightest distraction as she pirouettes around the room. Her black bubble stained tee-shirt could easily be confused for a young girl who managed to flee the clutches of an eight, no twelve armed octopus attack. And her dirty sticky bare feet speak of bubbles that didn't get away. And, then as quick as her story started....guess what? She's gone! Some invisible rope tied around her waist had yanked her back outside. Slam! Goes the screen door. "Watch out!  Oooh oooh get up there! Move over! Higher!" sings my granddaughter from the back porch as she directs another batch of new found friends.
I sit back in my leather recliner and half-heartily turn my attention back to my wide screen TV. All 105 channels of it! All available for my personal pleasure 24 hrs. a day seven days a week in HD. And I sit there, jealous of the total love and enjoyment my granddaughter has for the simplest form known to nature. The sphere. And it's a sphere in it's simplest form, made from liquid.
Why can't I love something that much? Oh I love my kids...most of them. And my grandchildren....all of them, but why can't I obtain the simplest form of pleasure, being love, from something I have or like to do. I want to L O V E to do something or have something again!
Is it because with age we can't have love without desire? If I was going to blow a bubble I would think about making it bigger than my granddaughter did. To impress her, it's what we do. It would have to go higher and further and last lost. The desire to blow a better bubble has made it a competition, but only to you, not the child. She still celebrates every bubble. Love has left the equation and desire and competition have set in. Polluted love.
Or is our now understanding of love changed? We love our spouses. That's a fancy name for husband or wife, you know the one at the other end of the couch each night. We look across at them in all their evening, ready for bed glory and remember a time not so long ago. Then you go look in the mirror and thank them for staying on. We still love them, but some of the shine is gone.
Its sad to think I'll never love something ever again as simple and purely as she loves bubbles. That kind of innocent love is rewarded to the very young.  Remember to celebrate it with them. Colour,blow bubbles, take walks, watch cartoons don't feel silly being a fairy princess grandpas and dads, because, that love she has for bubbles is only one tenth of the love she has for you.

Thank-you Gabriella and Charlotte   


bobby did this

Monday, February 23, 2015

Fwd: Instructions on Rat Poison

                                      Instructions on Rat Poison
                         (be sure to wash your hands after reading this)

"Yup" says the overweight New Your City employee "I've seen them draw blood out of babies fingers! If given chance,'ll bite all de flesh off yer bones an day still be lookin  fer more."
The person speaking is a city employee, on the Discovery Channel, fighting the NY City rat problem. He's walking through abandon buildings and placing packets of rat poison under floor boards, behind walls and in the dark shadows where rats appear from, and disappear into. "Why look they even play pool!" he laughs as he enters an all but abandon room, except for a pool table.
Now he's really got my attention, because I have a rat in my yard. And I was thinking of getting a pool table for the house, But not any more! Not if they can play pool! I once saw a painting on velvet of rats smoking and playing pool? Scary!
I have to rid the yard of my rat.
So for two straight weeks I went out of my way to annoyed my rat. If I saw Mickey (Mickey Rat)  when I was pulling into the drive I would chase him with the car and honk the horn. I'd fill in the holes he dug under the fence with what my dog left for me in the lawn. I'd yell at him through the widow and make growling bear sounds. Rats hate bears. I even went as far as leaving out some of Aunt Tilley's leftover Christmas cake. Now if I could just get him in a rat sized Christmas sweater and turn the heat up to old person, he would defiantly feel sick and want to leave.
All this persecution and still little Mickey would sit on the fence, rub his belly and lick his little rat lips, as if to say 'Is that all you got fat boy!'
Time to introduce Plan B. Time to step it up a notch and get a finger breaking, rat squishing spring loaded trap. It was time to get that,....but after my last experience with this type of rat removal system I was looking elsewhere. It was so gross! It got so I was throwing the traps away with every capture. And I swear, to you and out loud, that I smashed two fingers for every rat caught.
This time I was going chemical. I was going to poison Mickey Rat with all the killing power science would allow. And science has allowed such a strong poison that when you go to pay for this diabolical rat removal remedy at the rat poison store someone specially schooled in poison is called for over the intercom (no matter how many boxes you buy in any given month) to caution you on it's uses. I was sure my Mickey problem was finished.
Following the direction from the city worker on Discovery Channel, and not the instructions on the box, or the learned person at the rat store, I placed the packets of death along ratty paths under and away from birds, dogs, cats, sheep, cattle, wolves and roaming bison. Two shows may have blended into one as I fell asleep partway through his instructions.
Next day I walked my trap line along the fence, searched under the ever stationary Chevy,  looked behind the wood pile, in the lawn mower shed and under a pile of smoldering buffalo chips I could later use for cooking. Seemed funny to me too.
Two packets of instant death had been torn opened. I rubbed my bony hands together and let out a cackle to the sky just as lightning flashed and thunder boomed. I thought that was pretty random and wished someone else had also seen that.
Next day I was on the line again. A bit more was taken from the same two packets so I moved the other two that hadn't been touched to different spots and put out the fire on the one smoldering with the buffalo chips.
But I was still seeing Mickey. Sometimes he was smaller and sometimes bigger and almost a different colour. Must be the dog do-do I'm filling his holes with I thought.
A week goes by and I can't remember where I had placed all the packets of death but the ones I could remember seemed like they were being eaten. So I went back to the store for more. Again the learned poison control person they keep in the back came out and advised me how to use this poison, and stressed I need to read the instructions. I gave her an all assuring nod that I'd read it, crossed my heart, and left.
With all the poison bought and eaten I was sure old Mickey was dead. One taste of this poison should be enough to end any thought of him playing pool. Poison packets are disappearing or lost and after about a month I'm still seeing Mickey. So now it's back to Rat World for more Rat-be-gone.
Barb and I are now on a first name bases at the rat poison store. That's all they sell is rat poison. (Or so I tell the wife. If she knew it was the hardware store I'd be bringing back things for weekend filling chores as well). Barb drones through her legal requirements as I mouth her exact words and then promise to read the instructions, cross my heart and head home.
As I place the new poison packets carefully not to threaten migrating buffalo herds I decide that maybe I should read the box for instructions. And what unimpressed me the most with my  science filled packets of instant death was that it wasn't instant. It takes 8 days! My wife's meatloaf could do it in 4! And do you know that rats have mommy and daddy time as much as seven times a day with other mommy's and daddy rats? Plus my neighbour Ron said that at this time of year, with easy access  to water it could be even more ineffective. So all during this slow process of being poisoned they're repopulating the neighbourhood. I'm so lucky I have only one rat!
 All I'm doing is introducing a harmful diet that isn't even addictive or that deadly to him. It's like us with salt or chocolate only rats are smart enough to say this prepackaged food hurts my stomach so I won't eat it. I know this cause there's Mickey scurrying atop the fence with his crappy dyed fur coat. All I've done is given him an upset stomach for the last two months while he's been doing 50 shades of grey rats.
Now I  have seen the damage poisons has done in the past to food chains. A rat dies and is eaten by a cat, dog, cougar (not the lady 2 doors down) bear or buffalo  it affects that secondary animal very seriously. But not now. They'd have to eat infected rats for 8 days.
So instead of deadly poison why can't we make them ineffective in the mommy and daddy department? Why hasn't science figured out how to make rats unattractive to each other? Maybe introduce that part from a human into the rat so that it's repulsed by it's own self.
Introduce self loathing into a genetic marker, make them hate themselves so much that they feel no rat wants them (cause we don't!). Take away the desire for mommy and daddy time and make the female nag him. Make them marry!  Introduce some genetic code that makes them feel responsible for their offspring. That'll slow them down.
Lord knows its not hard to find a rat in a laboratory. There right there! Get them addicted to heroine or crack. Let them kill themselves with their addictions! And let the dealers and drug king pins deal with addicted rats stealing their supply till they do. After all they have guns and can shoot them.
I think I've brought up several new good ideas to eradicate the grey pool playing rat. I hope that perhaps city hall might take up the cause and use their full city status to pressure the science community into manufacturing a better more effective cure. Cause to tell you the truth I think there's more than just my Mickey out there.

Bob Niles

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Fwd: The Front Door is no Longer Needed

                              The Front Door is no Longer Needed    

(a conversation between Bob and Jim)     

Bob:  "My husbands home! My husbands home! she yells as she runs down the drive to meet the mailman. She's waving her arms all excited that I was leaving late for work that day."
Jim:   "What was that?...I was putting the lawn mower away."
Bob. "Our mailman Brad, I was going to mention how the family will miss him. He's been doing our house for...?.. about a year before Darren was born. And. Now with home delivery to stop...well I won't need a mail slot in the house anymore."
Jim:   "No I guess not. Soon to be quite the business I guess repairing that air vent in all the homes. Just let me water these begonias and will go in."
Bob:   "Mail delivery has gone the way of milk delivery to the home. What's next the daily paper? Just turn off that light at the front door because it's no longer needed. The once welcoming front part of our house with it's well lit broad walk leading to it, that suggested success, is now an echo to a brief past."
Jim:  "There that should do it, all watered. Come on inside.
Bob:   "Think about it, who now needs a front door? Who needs an elaborate front entry? Nobody answers, or goes through their front doors. Gone is that Avon lady, all put together just so, knocking at your front door. And you looking like Mrs. Cleaver, draped in pearls welcoming her into your modern home."
Jim:  "Who told you I dress up like Mrs. Cleaver?"
Bob:  "Ha Ha! was Bill from hockey.......You just going to wipe your hands on your pants? Could you at least look a little professional and wash em? That whole 'WELCOME' door mat is a thing of the past. People don't entertain at home anymore, homes are too small and close together. So the people you'd like to welcome, you don't. And you have to agree with me here, when theres a knock at the door right away you get defensive. Who's There? They use to say that in the old days, then we stopped for 50-75 years and now we're back saying it again. You don't want people knocking on the house unless it's expected. A knock means somebody wants something."
Jim:   "You Know I Can't Hear You With The Water Running."
Bob:  "I GUESS IT WAS DOCTORS that stopped home delivery first. And now we have to go someplace to get our mail. They should put the banks of mailboxes in pizza and Chinese food restaurants. So when you order home delivery for a pie or the No. 5 with egg rolls you could tell them to bring your mail when they come."
Jim:   "Good idea! Have a seat."
Bob:   "A home use to be where all the neighbourhood kids played. Some had messy unkept yards,  with bikes and half finished projects spilling out their carports. Some neighbours were loud and got a bad reputation for being so. Every house was different,  people expressed their own individuality in colours and  styles. When it would be resold it would still keep the name of he first owner. 'Hey do ya know the Johnstons house where the Kilmeners live?.....' Houses were individuals that had their own character. Now we've made them boxes of isolation to fit our own attempt at isolating ourselves, via computer from society. Hiding our secret lives from judging eyes of society, letting us be the wrong we are. Houses hold secrets. BROO-HAHA!"
Jim:  "Could you just lay back and do a little less talking."
Bob:  "........... ........The postman doesn't ring twice, he doesn't ring at all! Bit by bit we've successfully turned our homes into castles. Fortress all the same colour lined up in a row. Fenced for protection.  We don't leave doors or windows open, we lock them from all who would dare approach our perimeter. That Brad and his bag of bills and shiny pamphlets, entering my property, inserting whatever he liked  into my home. I think I'm glad he's gone! Oh sure it's great how Brad has taken a real liking to Darren, but he brings no letters from grandma or strange Aunt Fizzy. There's no envelopes for birthdays or Christmas in his daily delivery. It's all junk mail!"
Jim:  "Is it possible for you to open your mouth without speaking?"
Bob:  "Now with the government making home mail delivery a thing of the past they have allowed us to continue on to or final quest of total isolation. That strange weirdo living alone on the mountain top isn't such the nut we all thought him to he? He's now us! A house now, is just to sleep in, and if you're lucky you'll bump into another family member if they're back on day shift."
Jim:   "We'll that's a thought....not a good one, but, it's a thought.  What say we ask you to open wide, maybe look around, see what you've been up to?"
Bob:  "No problem! Just stay out of my computer, phone, medicine cabinet, under the bathroom sink, garage, bedroom drawers and...?...between the mattress."
Jim:   "No Ramblin Rose, open your mouth, without talking, let me look for cavities, your teeth, dentist, got it. Unlike you I have something to hide."
Bob:   "Wwwwhh laaatt wwwaass nnnaaawww  nnniiicccce...."
Jim:   "Okay now you're talking sense."

Bob Niles

Saturday, February 14, 2015

Fwd: Fifty Shades of Beige

                                         Fifty Shades of Beige

Since early December, after breaking up with your girlfriend, you've been able to be your own man. Horizontally and digitally linked into everything sports. Hibernating, waiting for February 14th to be over so that you can get back with your old girlfriend. Back to normal after all the craziness and expense of Christmas, New Years and then Valentines Day that you so cleverly planned to miss. The oh so cheap winter of you. Go to work, come home and do all the stuff you can't do the other three seasons. Which includes everything but going out and having a good time.
I say that because you were stupid enough to do a selfie of yourself and send it to your post Valentines Day sweetheart last year. The very same picture she used for her screen saver at work.  Because now you have a whole army of your ex-girlfriend's friends that know what you look like. And you have no idea who they are!
 Why you may have even been unlucky enough to try and hit on one of them. They knew who you were right away! They may have even trapped you into making a fool of yourself. Cause they just love going to work the next day and telling your ex all about your last nights failed adventure.
Now the ex has knowledge of what an a#% you are. She may tell you right away or keep that knowledge and use it against you in the future. Oh it could be as far away as your 25th wedding anniversary, but she'll use it. And you'll try to deny it (mostly because you honestly won't remember it). But she will assure you it was you, and has the pictures to prove it.
So if you really like her, stay home. Don't listen to  your buddies. You don't need to go out and have a good time. You don't deserve it. But they do!
They went through Christmas and New Years with all the expenses of fancy festive feasts, perhaps vacation, gifts, parties and more gifts. And now it's all over. Their girlfriend has dumped them, because it's a depressing time of year, their depressed and it's the guys fault.
So on money they don't have, they want to go out with their friends, also suddenly single with no money, and share stories of woe. And as they cry on each others shoulder about women, plans formulate to date more. Perhaps your ex girlfriend, you're not dating her,...yet. But that's what buds do. We're guys! Beware of other males at the watering hole.
Your only chance to win her back is if you can remember that conversation she had  about everything she ever thought of and her favorite flower. Because that would mean you cared and listened.
 It would be that conversation she started just as you laid down on the couch after a hard days work. Women think when a guy lays on the couch he wants to talk. You can spend the whole day together and nothing. Get back home lie on the couch and she starts up. She wants your opinion on this and that, on her hair colour, her make-up and that dress she wore to her cousins birthday. She wants to tell you about that so and so at work that stole her position, how she loves yellow roses, her girlfriend's pregnant and the paint in the bathroom is to yellowie . It's about this point you're wishing you could run out and get hit by a bus! But you nod and smile, throw in the occasional ah-ha and mention the word yellow a few times cause you heard her say it.
WAIT,..WHAT? Yellow,.. Yellow roses. She likes yellow roses. You send her yellow're back paint the bathroom beige and before you know it you're married. WAIT,...WHAT? Married?
Married! And now with children, your lives are now no longer your own. Late night feedings, diapers and sickness. Its the best of times,..the worst of times. You're driving kids everywhere. The house is filled with action and drama. Feelings are being expressed through and by the kids bedroom doors. They graduate, they drive, they start their lives. And then somewhere in there, if you're lucky, your children have children. It's a good time now. Most of your fighting is done as a couple. She had more stamina, and so she won. Your children are no longer teens and they've lived long enough to forgive you. You've built a history together that probably has more years in it than the time from now 'till death do you part' does. It all happened so fast.
You're still in love with her, whatever that turned out to be. It seems different with each couple. Hallmark doesn't  have your definition of it in the Anniversary section at the Dollar Store. The one that reads ' I want your pain and sorrow, your aches and woes, all the disease and sickness in your bones. So I don't have to listen to you go on about it!'
 You're the lucky ones, still together after all the years. She fell in love with a big dufass and over the years you've proved her right over and over. But her day can't be complete without you. And you would be totally lost if not for her. That's what happens to love.
It's sometimes not wanted, not expected, it just happens. Your plans of being aloof fail. And you're glad they did. Love is not all the wild, crazy, fifty shades of grey, electrifying no kids for the weekend kinda moments. But more a fifty shades of beige. You're the masses, the norm. You, me and our significant others, are the many unsung loving marriages that make up most of society. The day to day couples that through love and sacrifice unite and bind families together. You see us in the malls and grocery stores just frumping along, nothing special. Two people working together, building and running a family. We unfortunately for the advertising world are the face, taste, smell and the desire of love. The fifty shades of beige love. A love that asks nothing, other than to be with them tomorrow. And then all the other tomorrow's you both have left.

Bob Niles