FALL, winTER, sprING
Yes people of the West Coast of Canada we are going through that time of year known as 'Falltering'. It's part Fall, all Winter and part Spring. A super season consisting of half of the year where the weather differs very little. A dreary, boring, overcast, just about double digit temperatures of will it rain, or will it not rain (who cares, everything I own is wet) six months.
Falltering starts early to mid November with a warm wind storm and a weekend of solid rain. 'I'm here!' it bellows just as all the holiday shopping starts to mark the beginning of Falltering. It comes in like a naughty child. Pulling at your coat and trying to break your umbrella while it water bombs you as you blindly run between your car and the mall entrance.
While in the mall mind control has begun to help us not go nuts. The powers that be, unknown friendly government forces, flash colorful lights of red blue and green. Trees are illuminated that hypnotize us into thinking that it's base needs to be blocked by beautifully wrapped boxes covered in bows. All this is to get us out of our homes to stimulate the economy and give us something to do other than play in puddles.
People stumble around wishing each other 'Merry' and 'Happy' this and that to make you think it's going to be 'Merry' and 'Happy'. This is the start of Falltering.
This spirit of hope last till the first week of January. Till about the time January's days are equal to the temperature. It's then you realize you can't take Falltering any more and need a holiday in some sun. Hot, burning, blinding, cancer causing solar rays are what you need, and now! And it's everybody that needs it. Vacations, hotels and airlines are filled to capacity in this the most expensive time of year to travel. Thank you very much Falltering!
One week, ten days or two weeks if you're lucky is all the time you can get away from Falltering. People and work need you back here in the gloom and rain. Jealous, unhappy, wet people that don't want to see your sun filled pictures splashed with turquoise water and weird umbrellas that block rays from the sun. Why Bill from shipping even asked why I pointed the camera flash right back at the camera. Upon explaining the existence of the sun come January in other places he wasn't the only one that in their mind went 'Oh ya'.
In mid to late January, just to remind you of the ever always present, puddle by the door at work,... Falltering makes the water hard, slippery and dangerous. Falltering does something it seldom does now-a-days it goes a bit cold. Just for a day or two. It'll poop a dump of snow, clog traffic and bring a more three dimensional look to moisture. The kids will stay home from school and you'll lie to the people at work about being sick that day. Last time you left them home alone you wound up with a new kitchen.
Little Cindy and Bobby will want to play in the snow and you'll search the house for gloves, mittens, socks anything to put on their hands. It's snow boots instead of just rubber boots, toques, scarfs and sweaters. Forty five min. later they exit the house wearing Aunt Tilly's oven mitts that she made for you last Christmas. Rubber boots now too small for their feet because of the extra socks wrapped in plastic bags. This with your 2010 Winter Olympic toque and your rayon print 'Sunday go to Binos' fashion scarf.
But you need not fear the neighbours assessment for your children's fashion choices. For one immediatly slips on the puddle and comes in crying. And you don't even get the tears dried, before the other comes in complaining of being cold and wet.
It's about here you phone work and tell them you'll be in a little late.
Two days later the snow's gone thanks to a pineapple express of blowing warm air mixed with watery spurts. Just the way you remember that sick day on your holidays three weeks ago. You just didn't know what it was called.
February splashes by and your thanking God for it's only 28 days. This leads to March and something the sports world calls March Madness. For you, this means something totally different than it does to them. You want out! Your socks have been wet for five months now! Wet feet for that long has an effect on a persons thinking. You hear of the madness of Spring Break that collage and university kids go on. It's mayhem! And you're all for it! Middle aged sensibility is faltering because of the length of Falltering.
Keep it together! Only about a month and a half to go.
April starts with a 'Fools Day'. And of past recent years anger has taken over from the light hearted humorous pranks. People turn mean and their laughs are now different from the last time you heard laughter,..in August. Their laugh is like the laugh you hear on that late night weekend movie that comes from the cellar. And that laugh today is coming from your dear sweet mother.
April creeps and teases. The clouds in the western sky stay lighter longer in the day casting a beautiful reflection on the now shrinking puddles. The once happy child's poem of 'April showers bring Mayflowers', is replaced with April rainstorm combine with hail stones.
I can't take the teasing of a little sun, and then have it drowned, like we got caught with something we weren't suppose to have, with hail and rain.
It's soon after, Falltering starts to break. A little extra sun where the full orb is almost visible. This is when the West Coast population goes nuts. We all dress like a hot July afternoon, and head to the beaches like lemmings all crowding to the ocean shores. But unlike them we stop. We, with what little brain matter that isn't all soggy and wet say 'Hang on dummy! Remember a January 1st swim? You don't want to end Falltering with a cold'.
Falltering ends with the welcome of allergies, hay fever and stuffy noses! Yes Falltering falters after the first half of Spring. It gives way to lingering glimpses of what seems to be the flash from my camera, but longer. Right Bill?
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Monday, January 26, 2015
Sunday, January 18, 2015
Pushers and Pullers
"Excuse me? Thank you very much. Excuse me just gotta get past. Thank you. Pardon me gotta get around you there. Thanks. You're kinda in the way here, need past. Hello?"
This is me barely in the door of the Super-Dooper Grocery Giant trying to push past they that pull the blasted wheeled basket. All forward motion and communication fail so you back up and trip over a wayward come-a-long basket someone's left right behind you. Which not only produces your butt on the floor but several 2 for 1 pickle jars as well.
'Wet cleanup at the north entrance.' Is heard from a ceiling speakers as you unwind yourself from the now ownerless come-along basket.
Why in the name of canned pimentos did anyone ever think that dragging a wagon of groceries behind you, one that Pullers seem to have no idea of its location, is better than pushing a responsible basket, in front of you that you steer?
It's become an issue that has grocery stores divided. They that push, and they that pull.
The little Red Riding-hood baskets, of they that carry, don't get to have an opinion. It's the only thing Pushers and Pullers agree on,..Rookies.
As you can tell I'm a Pusher. My guidance counsellor in Grade 12 predicted it. And I do get irritated with them that pull. Pullers are people that don't want to fork out the Quarter for the serious once a week shopping cart. People that are Pullers run in every day of the work week and buy 14 things (but they that stand behind you in the 15 or less express check-out count 21) and then they're on their way.
But you're not on your way are you? You and your extra three foot arm appendage extend cross ways in the aisle blocking my way to the potato chips. Dangerous thing to come between a saltoholic and his fix.
And even when Pullers are moving, their baskets of death don't stay behind them. It fans out to widen their advance and retreat. The basket pulls to the left or right of the Puller like a wayward child trying to draw their attention someplace else.
And it seems you are totally oblivious to this extension of your youness. Do you think when you stop your basket will heel like a dog and just come and sit at your heels? Not unless the floor is slanted the right way will that ever happen.
Then there are times you abandon it with its ever so annoying, long, aisle blocking handle extended. You've dumped it and soloed one aisle over cause other Pullers in the coffee aisle, where you need to go, have stopped to herd and visit. So you go it alone, sans basket. Dancing around, over and and behind three Pullers to collect Seattle's Best #4 grind. All the while you, now blocking aisle 3, and allowing them to continue blocking 4. While I'm still trying to hide my wet butt stinking like Polskie Ogorkies stuck behind your temporarily abandoned basket.
And God bless the Pullers that allowed their little Jimmy to commandeer the once lowly come-along basket and turn it into a sugar fueled race car. A candy injected British racing green sports car that races up and down aisles leaving mommy and daddy free to get past other Pullers that now linger in front of the spaghetti sauces. Mom and dad set off to acquire 2 jars of tomato sauce and 4 cans of Beefaroni, then retreat to find little Jimmy (this is usually done audibly). They then deposit their acquisitions in the aforementioned basket and then it's back in the trenches fighting through other Pullers and Pushers, teaming with the Carriers on their quest for more sustenance while little Jimmy burns doughnuts by the dry goods. Where did Jimmy get the matches? I've looked everywhere for them.
The only Pullers that watch their baskets are the cute ones. The ones that you want to bump into. Ones that would be all apologetic and flash you a smile and say sorry. Cute ones that wouldn't notice your age or the hemorrhoid cream and Fixident. But if only you were 30 yrs. younger and she was 30 IQ Points lower. A beautiful girl who wants you for your money and is really bad at math.
Sorry, ....I got lost there for a second.
Why even the homeless don't want to be Pullers. You never see a homeless Puller!
Now I know Pushers can be guilty of the same crimes as Pullers. But at least when we're in the way we know about it and can see the problem and correct it in a timely fashion. It's right in front of us. Pullers have no clue where their basket is behind them.
Maybe if they were required to wear a rear view mirror head band around they're skull. Or put mirrors on the come-along basket itself, then they would know the number of Pushers that were piling up behind them. Plus if you're going to be a Puller it should be required that you understand excuse me, move it and coming through in more than five languages.
And Pullers, when they've emptied their come-along basket at the check-out they just leave them there. People have to be hired to continually collect them and move them out of the way. Not us Pushers. We're considerate. We take our baskets outside and line them up neatly out of the way. And then other a pushers bring them back in one by one to repeat the process.
Pushers we must unite and educate the wandering Pullers. So I'm starting Pushers United. Or P U as we'll refer to our selfs. And to start we'll show our numbers. When passing another Pusher give them a big P U. You'll be surprised how empowering it will feel to have so many give you a P U. while grocery shopping.
So let's unite and make Pullers Pushers. And remember we're all in this together. I'm pulling,...sorry pushing for ya.
Monday, January 12, 2015
The Two Fairies and the Dyson Sucker
"Don't the two girls look so adorable in their sparkly princess dresses?" my wife states more than asks. States,... as she falls all over the living room furniture trying to get that best picture angle of her two fancy frocked fairy beauties. Two cartoon watching, drink box guzzling fairies with no abilities for flight or granting wishes. But, have the gift of depositing many thousands of magic sparkles, (I say magic because they can't stick on their dress but have the ability to stick to everything else) wherever they go.
My so called loving family members have fairy-ized my house and everything exposed in it by gifting the 2 and 5 yr. old granddaughters these fairy frocks for Christmas. And now these newly crowned, wand waving, gas belching, fancy dressed fairy princess trail life embarrassing disco dust in every step and breath they make.
At first I didn't know about the magnetic attraction fairy glitter had on my clothes and exposed skin . I'd go about my life doing my normal routines and not even know I was being bedazzled. But then I'd clue in with my superior spidy senses that the girl at Starbucks lingered her stare at my forehead just a nano second too long. The nice Asian lady at the dry cleaners purposely wiping her left cheek had seemed to want me to do the same. And then the opened mouth pirate laugh from the guys at work as I walked past with my glittered 'Ba- donkey- donk' gave clue that something was amuck.
I was ablaze with disco glitter dust. The doggone angelic grandkids had glitter bombed me! My hair, now with it's many magic follicles was only detoured by the four spotlights of attention grabbing glitter that now shared my face. The back of my navy blue jacket was bejeweled with fairy sparkles. And the matching slacks had now a circular ring at the back that looked like I had perhaps unknowingly squished a fairy by sitting on her.
Oh, and these shining spotlights don't just wipe off with a swipe from the back of hand, they stick! Like a warm wet sneeze to a screen door on a summer day. I had to use the Dyson to power suck what's on me, and then back track with the vacuum to every where these flightless fairies wanderd. Yes thanks to the wife's vacuum, gone are the four eye-catching spotlights on my face. Now replaced by four, suction induced, red crop circles.
That was my ignorance the first time. The second time (yes it happened again) I was well aware the effect fairy dresses had on my dignity, and I had a plan. I followed my two little dancing fairies with the wife's ball vacuum everywhere they went. I was like the third dancing fairy only much bigger and without a fancy frock. But, had the magic ability to suck up disco dust without the need of a vacuum bag.
It didn't help one bit! My face must be a magnet to glitter! Glitter that waits till your out in public, when the light is just right, and a social situation arises. Then, it pops forth louder than an oozing pimple at a high school dance. Me, a 58 yr. old grandpa to four grandkids looking like a disco drag queen the day after. Thank-you very much you bag-less Dyson. And thank you, you third world sweat shops that make fairy dresses affordable to families of middle classed sparkly faced pre-senior citizens like me!
But even with all this I was still to be embarrassed to an even greater degree at the doctors office.
How was I to know that one of the little dears had gone potty while I had my back to them while vacuuming the couch.
My, so called professional doctor could hardly remain upright because of a vertical challenging fits of laughter.
He and the nurse, whom he had asked if it would be okay if she could observe a certain procedure, had me to bend over. At first he had held it together, but soon gave in to the hilarity one expects from a star spangled moon. And him calling himself a professional. He had to use naked me for support to stop from falling over.
At least the nurse had some decorum. She, with tweezers, took a sample of he glitter and put it in a little glass jar like it was the problem I had come to see the laughing doctor about.
And what is this, soon to be medically studied glitter made from? It lasts forever! I swear everything and anything that has ever had a faux fairy fancy frock pass it, still has some of this shiny curse to adult dignity on it or in it still.
I think this ageless magic dust is made from all the computer parts we send over to India to be re-cycled. The precious metals are separated then the rest is ground up for fairy dress sparkle. And I don't even think they paint it to give it eye catching bling. They just remove the paint. That sparkle and shine is already under there. Under the color of your computer is solid glitter! Because they know they're going to crush them in a couple of years to make sparkle dust! Every computer we send them as e-waste comes back in sparkles! Fifteen trashed computers to a dress.
"Okay girls one more picture of the two of you on grandpas lap!" the wife commands.
"NO!"... Too late, I've been bedazzled. A full frontal attack! Time to drag out the 'Ball Dyson'.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Dinkledew, Yard Chocolates and Dragon Puffs
(and other things that make your socks wet)
Now we've all heard and read fantastically unbelievable stories about the love of a dog toward his owner. How it's rescued or stayed with through the storm risking its own live to save a hurt or dying master. Stories of incredible heroism dogs have shown even when they themselves are injured. And I have such a story....but I'm not writing about my first dog Buddy today. I'm writing about the other dog most of us have had at one time in our lives. The one that's confused, angered, and frustrated you so much that you've mouthed the words that you'll never have another dog again,.... as your wiping up dog piddle in the front entry.
Now for the sake of this story and on the off chance my writing is attracting anything more than flies, I will change the strong language of 'dog piddle' and 'dog pooh' to 'dinkledew' and 'yard chocolate'.
Now where was I,..oh yes dinkledew in the front entry. And this is without fail! Every time someone walks in the front door (or back door or probably through a window or down a chimney) he does a dinkledew right in front of them. So every time, and here it could be the 100th time they've been there, I greet the grandkids, kids, all family members, door-to-door salesmen, purveyors of religion, mailmen, pizza delivery, and I think even if Jesus knocked on my door I'm on all fours wiping up dinkledew welcoming them to our home. I shake no ones hand in inviting them into our humble abode. It's more likely I'll comment on their foot attire and caution them on where to walk. Unless of course it's Jesus. Seems wrong telling Jesus where to step.
Now in past times I tried to punish Bubba for such behavior.
Oops how forgetful of me, I never introduced Bubba. He's the dog. I didn't want you to think he was the pizza delivery boy and I'm going at him with an umbrella ( it was by the front door) for making my dog do a dinkledew in the entry.
Bubba is our current, and last canine we will ever own. We adopted him after my daughter was discovered by the landlord having the aforementioned dog in a apartment that does not allow dogs. So it was decided she could move back home with us and her dog, or we could just adopt the darling white fluffy bundle of leg humping joy that was Bubba. We opted for the dog, but the wife made it clear it would be on the understanding she would have him fixed first.
Now my only understanding of being fixed, was for the mrs. to nag them off, as in most married male cases. But this was of a medical nature with knives and stitches in the swimsuit area. If dogs wore swimsuits. And I think it was because of this operation and then directly moving in with the wife and myself that he now related his new dwellings to his groinal disfiguration. So Bubba became revengeful toward the floors of my home.
Now I hate wet socks. And I wear socks in the house at all times. Socks were invented to cover everyone's ugly toes. Toes that look like each one of them came from a different persons foot. Socks differentiate us from space aliens. Socks are essential, and they must be dry! But Bubba does his best with dinkledew and his water bowl to make sure my socks remain moist. Dripping!
I say water bowl because this dog drinks water from the bottom of the bowl! He buries his face completely in his aluminum water dish. And then when he resurfaces his furry mustached face, which has absorbed what he didn't drink, he walks all around the floor dripping', sock soaking water everywhere. Then after his trap is set in the kitchen he locates my whereabouts and shakes what didn't drip off his beard all over me. Then, he goes and sits by his bowl to wait for me to refill his dish so he can repeat his sock soaking, slate staining, slobbery slime of slipping secret solution for me to step in.
I don't try to punish him for his drinking habits. It's his love for the water though that's ruining my socks life.
There was for a brief period, after trying everything else, that he was punished for dinkledew in the house. That went over like yard chocolates on the rug! As a matter of fact it was yard chocolates on the rug. (please refer to the second paragraph if you've forgotten the yard chocolate metaphor) He would seek revenge for making him go into his bed or down into his room by dropping, more often than not, a lose almost melted yard chocolate and always on a rug.
The animal psychologist suggested because of his breed, which I've been asked by the Bi_h_n breeders not to reveal as it might hurt business, he has a tendency to get an upset stomach when disciplined.
This dog gets an upset stomach with air! I mean I'm use to him, but to a guest who is already annoyed that their socks are wet with water or dinkledew or both, and then they're subjected to a whiff of one of his 'dragon puffs' (did you get that metaphor?) it can be eye watering. You don't even imagine it came from somebody in the room! It couldn't! Not an aroma like that! It's something that physically hurts you.
Bubba gets an upset stomach when people come over. And with one or two guest here, he for sure thinks more will be coming. He then takes it upon himself to be the first to report, to a house full of people with wet socks and probably a damaged olfactory sense, that more have arrived. This is achieved by barking at any sound or movement on the planet earth.
"Would you ROPE ROPE ROPE care for ROPE ROPE another ROPE ROPEROPE ROPE cup of ROPEROPEROPEROPE Bubba! Be quiet! roperope ro pe What was I saying? Ah yes...tea?....No don't leave yet. The grandkids haven't opened their Christmas presents! Besides your socks are already wet, it can't get worse....for your feet!"
The grandkids are the best thing I like about Bubba. They can do anything to him and he just takes it. They fall on him and trip over him but he sticks with them. Never has he tried to bite or nip at them no matter how they treat him. Just last week one of the twins were trying to push him down the stairs but he just sat there and enjoyed the attention.
Bubba is 8 yrs. old now and because of all the trouble I caused others in my youth Bubba will live a long long life. I hope you're enjoying this God. I know, I know 'That which doesn't kill you......' didn't come from the back end of that DOG!
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
It's the Least Wonderful Time of the Year
The three best words that describe January are as follows and I quote, stink, stank, stunk!
I quote 'The Grinch' because he use to love this time of year. No more is the belch of whomboozelers, the annoying tinkle tinkle from zingdingglers or the feast of the beast by Christmas singers!
The holidays are over! Decorations are down and boxed away. No more parties! No more feasts! The weather is all rain, but we dare not complain because the rest of Canada is much worse.
The only holiday comfort left is the burning logs on TV.
Craving a fiery log fix I extend an arm out of its winter nest that I've fashioned from three blankets and a sleeping bag on my big EasyBoy chair. TV remote in hand I tune to the happy, comforting, in this time of need, holiday hang on.
WHAT!.........it's gone! This too! I want my EM-TV! (EM= embers) Its the only reality TV I watch. I never saw how it ended! Did it just burn out like all the kid TV stars of the 80s? Was it snuffed out like an Italian gangster?
Why? It was as entertaining as most of the shows that are on TV now.
Oh sure they might have mixed it up a bit by burning different things from time to time.
First could be all the wrapping paper and bows from all the holiday gifts. The different colours that burn from the papers and watch the bows melt and smoke before they combust into hot hungry flames.
Then in February have a Valentine Special. The burning of pictures of old boyfriends. The creepy Valentine cards from people like the sweat pants guy at the end of the hall. We all have items of a love gone wrong that need to burn.
Easter, could bring about the melting of cute chocolate animals that we didn't want to pass our gums. Watch as they droop, melt and liquefy like old vegetables in the crisper you bought at the start of the year to start a healthier lifestyle but didn't.
Spring Break and the kids are at home alone could bring about live phone in shows where household items from the bathroom and kitchen cabinets are set ablaze. The pretty colours and the oh so toxic fumes all safely kept away from harming little Johnnys lungs.
Late night, for the adults you could have a phone in show on stuff from the garage. That stuff burns real big! ( I'm starting to sound like a pyro!)
How about a divorce special. He burns her stuff....she burns his stuff. We're talking Emmy material here.
Then there's all the summer fires. Camp sing songs fires around a cheerful circular center point. Scary story fires, all told across hungry licking flames that dance shadows across terrified faces. Friday night bonfires of drunken idiots that end with no eyelashes and much singed hair all to the cry of 'I love you man!'
You could have different wood night. Maple he will Mondays! Fir-get-me-not Fridays! Concluding with Spruce me up Saturdays.
All these possibilities and only half the years gone. TV programmers where are you? This is a sure hit! If you guys won't maybe I'll start my own network. Call it the CBC (Continually Burning Channel). Not to be confused with the other CBC which replaces the 'Burning' with boring.
The need for fire has been part of our earliest history. Comfort, togetherness, safety, warmth and light was provided by man learning to recreate the flame. It's roots run deep in civilization. Is it no wonder then that we all are guilty of watching a few burning logs crackling away to a time not forgotten. Happier times. Simpler times. A time before stink, stank, stunk!