Saturday, September 28, 2013
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Spiders Like it When You Whistle the Andy of Mayberry Tune
Spiders Like it When You Whistle the Andy of Mayberry Tune
She sat upright in the bed. Dark. Now quiet. Sure she had heard a scream. She reached across the bed to awake Bob. Gone. Bed is cool to the touch. Where could he be?
EEEEEEEEEKKKKKKEEEE!! Somewhere an 8 yr. old girl (it sounded like she was 8) was in great danger. "Bob, Bob!" she whisper shouted into the dark.
"Heeeeerrrrrrreeeee, down the hall in the bath! ........ SPIDER!"
"Well get dressed! Hurry! I heard a little girl screaming somewhere. Sounded close by."
"Ah....that was probably me. Spider!"
Well that's how my wife tells the story. I'm sure it wasn't quite like that. It was probably more like a Tarzan scream than a pre-pubescent girl scream. But she does have the part right about me being afraid of spiders.
And this is the time of year they decide to come into the house to try and chase us out of it. They can't spend winter outside. They want your house!
They start by building their webs closer to the house at this time of year. Webs that they cleaverly string in front of doorways and across sidewalks that remain unseen till your're wearing it. The fear starts. They never build their webs down low, it's always up, trying to catch your face. To rip it down you have to get the longest, pointiest stick you can find. Then you pull and poke at it, (it has the consistency of some kind of anorexic cotton candy, but with less calories) to destroy this nightmare. But the spider always gets away! Some sort of Ninja thing. Hey!, if they can spit thread that's stronger than steel from their bum....they can disappear!
The fear builds.
Next they send some of the small ones in...the spies. Test how much of a Nancy (or another feminine name with which to challenge you male macho-ness)) they're working with. I find one in the kitchen on the rim of my mug. I scream. Run for the bug spray and blast the whole can on it. But, from a different room, behind a secure door. Start to get dizzy. Must not fall. Will awake with a spiders web across my face. Go lie down in the bathtub. Spiders hate bathtubs.
Spiders are high-fouring (if they do five they fall over) each other downstairs behind the furnace. It's going to be a warm winter. The folklore about this wuss was true.
Now it's time for the big boys to play in the shadows, just around the edges, cause questions, create panic. "What was that!? Did you see that! ?Was that something!? I saw something! Go look! I'm not gonna go look! You look! My big boy pants are in the wash. Hey! A monster spider was just in the next room waiting to jump on my face! They needed cleaning!"
Fear builds greater
Now two of the biggest ones are sent out. But not together...separately. You'll enter a dark room and turn on the lights, and whatever they were doing,...they stop. You move...they move. You run to another room, they follow. You emit high pitched girly sounds as you cartoonishly try to run but your legs get you nowhere. Your arms outstretched as your feet spin, as if your riding a bike, but you remain stationary. He's gaining on you! You (as manly as you can in your new girly voice) scream for help from the wife. She thinks you've cut off your hand on the table saw by the volume and pitch of your new found octave.
She arrives to find you clung to the side of the door jamb, a foot off the ground. She kills the spider with your Tiger Woods #5 iron. You climb off the wall and recommend a #3 wood next time and make a mental note to buy a new #5 iron.
Later that night after several hours of horizontal unrest (cause you know the other one is out there) you get out of bed and ever so cautiously, expectingly fearful, plan your way down the hall to the bathroom. Target archived, you take a seat on the only seat in the room. You calm your fears by whistling the Andy of Mayberry tune, but this attracts the other spider. Spiders love whistling, especially old TV tunes. He now revels himself from a fold in the rubber ducky shower curtain, two feet from your face. He's big, black, hairy and your thankful you saw him while sitting on the toilet. Only for the reason that if you had your big boy pants on,....they'd be dirty again. You open your mouth but nothing comes out. The German Shepard down the street answers back. Firmly grasping the edges of the toilet seat, hyperventilating, while trying to control your urge to flee, you manage to eek out a more audible, but in no way manly, cry for assistance. This comes in the form of 13 Es and 6 Ks all jumbled together.
Bob! Bob! Responds the wife, and then something about a small girl in trouble scares the black menacing, eight legged arachnid away. After the #5 iron thing, spiders are afraid of my wife.
So, after that we save the little girl that had fallen down the well, yadie yadie yadie, I'm a hero! Seems her screams and mine, combined and spurred the community to venture out to see what was going on. Well.....that's my story anyway. So who to believe? Some #5 iron wielding spider killer or a brave, great Canadian hero.
Spiders are afraid of heros.........right?
BobNiles 604-761-2466
bobby did this
She sat upright in the bed. Dark. Now quiet. Sure she had heard a scream. She reached across the bed to awake Bob. Gone. Bed is cool to the touch. Where could he be?
EEEEEEEEEKKKKKKEEEE!! Somewhere an 8 yr. old girl (it sounded like she was 8) was in great danger. "Bob, Bob!" she whisper shouted into the dark.
"Heeeeerrrrrrreeeee, down the hall in the bath! ........ SPIDER!"
"Well get dressed! Hurry! I heard a little girl screaming somewhere. Sounded close by."
"Ah....that was probably me. Spider!"
Well that's how my wife tells the story. I'm sure it wasn't quite like that. It was probably more like a Tarzan scream than a pre-pubescent girl scream. But she does have the part right about me being afraid of spiders.
And this is the time of year they decide to come into the house to try and chase us out of it. They can't spend winter outside. They want your house!
They start by building their webs closer to the house at this time of year. Webs that they cleaverly string in front of doorways and across sidewalks that remain unseen till your're wearing it. The fear starts. They never build their webs down low, it's always up, trying to catch your face. To rip it down you have to get the longest, pointiest stick you can find. Then you pull and poke at it, (it has the consistency of some kind of anorexic cotton candy, but with less calories) to destroy this nightmare. But the spider always gets away! Some sort of Ninja thing. Hey!, if they can spit thread that's stronger than steel from their bum....they can disappear!
The fear builds.
Next they send some of the small ones in...the spies. Test how much of a Nancy (or another feminine name with which to challenge you male macho-ness)) they're working with. I find one in the kitchen on the rim of my mug. I scream. Run for the bug spray and blast the whole can on it. But, from a different room, behind a secure door. Start to get dizzy. Must not fall. Will awake with a spiders web across my face. Go lie down in the bathtub. Spiders hate bathtubs.
Spiders are high-fouring (if they do five they fall over) each other downstairs behind the furnace. It's going to be a warm winter. The folklore about this wuss was true.
Now it's time for the big boys to play in the shadows, just around the edges, cause questions, create panic. "What was that!? Did you see that! ?Was that something!? I saw something! Go look! I'm not gonna go look! You look! My big boy pants are in the wash. Hey! A monster spider was just in the next room waiting to jump on my face! They needed cleaning!"
Fear builds greater
Now two of the biggest ones are sent out. But not together...separately. You'll enter a dark room and turn on the lights, and whatever they were doing,...they stop. You move...they move. You run to another room, they follow. You emit high pitched girly sounds as you cartoonishly try to run but your legs get you nowhere. Your arms outstretched as your feet spin, as if your riding a bike, but you remain stationary. He's gaining on you! You (as manly as you can in your new girly voice) scream for help from the wife. She thinks you've cut off your hand on the table saw by the volume and pitch of your new found octave.
She arrives to find you clung to the side of the door jamb, a foot off the ground. She kills the spider with your Tiger Woods #5 iron. You climb off the wall and recommend a #3 wood next time and make a mental note to buy a new #5 iron.
Later that night after several hours of horizontal unrest (cause you know the other one is out there) you get out of bed and ever so cautiously, expectingly fearful, plan your way down the hall to the bathroom. Target archived, you take a seat on the only seat in the room. You calm your fears by whistling the Andy of Mayberry tune, but this attracts the other spider. Spiders love whistling, especially old TV tunes. He now revels himself from a fold in the rubber ducky shower curtain, two feet from your face. He's big, black, hairy and your thankful you saw him while sitting on the toilet. Only for the reason that if you had your big boy pants on,....they'd be dirty again. You open your mouth but nothing comes out. The German Shepard down the street answers back. Firmly grasping the edges of the toilet seat, hyperventilating, while trying to control your urge to flee, you manage to eek out a more audible, but in no way manly, cry for assistance. This comes in the form of 13 Es and 6 Ks all jumbled together.
Bob! Bob! Responds the wife, and then something about a small girl in trouble scares the black menacing, eight legged arachnid away. After the #5 iron thing, spiders are afraid of my wife.
So, after that we save the little girl that had fallen down the well, yadie yadie yadie, I'm a hero! Seems her screams and mine, combined and spurred the community to venture out to see what was going on. Well.....that's my story anyway. So who to believe? Some #5 iron wielding spider killer or a brave, great Canadian hero.
Spiders are afraid of heros.........right?
BobNiles 604-761-2466
bobby did this
Sunday, September 22, 2013
I Wish I Use to Have a Unicorn
I Wish I Use to Have a Unicorn
I have the luxury of day caring my very active and sometimes hot tempered four year old granddaughter. A cute little curly haired, blond angel with more time-outs than the meanest hockey player in the whole universe. From giggles, hugs and kisses while sitting in my lap to BOOM!....standing alone in the bathroom thinking about what wrong she had done in less time than it takes to warm up 'Beefaroni'. The language she learns in pre-school!
After one such time-out, and a hug with a "I still love you very much" she told me of all the wishes that she would like if Santa came to her house.
"Grandpa you know what?" ( this is how she starts every sentence,or, it's with a Grandpa look at this!) "W H A T ?" I ask with the full knowledge that this is going to be an indefinite period of time that's filled the weirdest collection of rambling unconnected thoughts that all 4 yr. olds have wired on chocolate ( her moms coming home in 5min. and this is how I get back at her for being a teenager). "Grandpa you know what?" (again) "W H A T !" "Look at this!"
"Charlotte" ( in my best cautionary tone, relating that grandpas had 10 hrs. of 'you know whats?' and 'look at this!' already today)
"I wish you and everybody else wouldn't get mad at me. And I wish I liked broccoli and going to bed when it's still light outside. And my biggest best wish is, I wish I use to have a unicorn! Purple! That could fly so fast that......."
"I wish I use to have a unicorn?" I interrupted ( oh sure I wanted to tell her everybody wasn't mad at her, broccoli was good for her and how in the summer months the sun barely sets. But 'I wish I use to have a unicorn!') "A purple flying unicorn? And you've already given up on the idea of ever owning one? What quashed that dream?"
"GRANDPA, unicorns aren't real! But they use to be..."
"Mommy's here!" came the happy sing-song jingle coming up the stairs. Coat, boots, back-pack, tattered old blankie and two videos that shorten the day were all collected. With a hurried 'We'll see you tomorrow' all the noise, life and love exited the house. In its place the tick of the old battery clock over the fireplace and a small dog breathing a lot easier.
' I wish I use to have a unicorn', kept going over and over in my mind. At 4 yrs. old a dream has already died. The belief in, the hope of and the knowledge there never will be, has already come, been and gone from my granddaughters life. For just a blink of an eye she could of had a unicorn. Purple and able to fly across that new field of dreams she had just started to cultivate. Virgin ground without the weeds of reality, that ruin many crops of our dreams. But at four years old the weeds have claimed the hope of a small girl, and her wish of ever owning a unicorn.
The wishes and hopes and dreams of our children are very special. They are the lucky few that can do, be, hope and try to have anything they want. Nurture their field of dreams. Protect it. All to quick someone wants to enter that special area of their imagination and tell them they can't grow that in their environment. The jealous older multitudes that know better, kill young plants in early fields. Watch what your children watch, who they play and talk with. Be mindful of your conversation when they are in the room, and pick up your magazines. Young dreamers have big eyes and ears.
I sometimes wish our kids could grow up like most of us did, without the computer. Childhood mysteries that dad and mom would answer at an appropriate date are now solved over at Billy's house when his mom goes to the mall. I rather enjoyed my childhood knowledge changing from week to week and friend to friend about the opposite sex. It all depended on which friend had the older brother. Dreams were replanted and changed daily. Man I had a lot of wishes in those years.
'I wish I use to have a unicorn'
I wish she still wished she wanted to have a unicorn.
Bob Niles
bobby did this
I have the luxury of day caring my very active and sometimes hot tempered four year old granddaughter. A cute little curly haired, blond angel with more time-outs than the meanest hockey player in the whole universe. From giggles, hugs and kisses while sitting in my lap to BOOM!....standing alone in the bathroom thinking about what wrong she had done in less time than it takes to warm up 'Beefaroni'. The language she learns in pre-school!
After one such time-out, and a hug with a "I still love you very much" she told me of all the wishes that she would like if Santa came to her house.
"Grandpa you know what?" ( this is how she starts every sentence,or, it's with a Grandpa look at this!) "W H A T ?" I ask with the full knowledge that this is going to be an indefinite period of time that's filled the weirdest collection of rambling unconnected thoughts that all 4 yr. olds have wired on chocolate ( her moms coming home in 5min. and this is how I get back at her for being a teenager). "Grandpa you know what?" (again) "W H A T !" "Look at this!"
"Charlotte" ( in my best cautionary tone, relating that grandpas had 10 hrs. of 'you know whats?' and 'look at this!' already today)
"I wish you and everybody else wouldn't get mad at me. And I wish I liked broccoli and going to bed when it's still light outside. And my biggest best wish is, I wish I use to have a unicorn! Purple! That could fly so fast that......."
"I wish I use to have a unicorn?" I interrupted ( oh sure I wanted to tell her everybody wasn't mad at her, broccoli was good for her and how in the summer months the sun barely sets. But 'I wish I use to have a unicorn!') "A purple flying unicorn? And you've already given up on the idea of ever owning one? What quashed that dream?"
"GRANDPA, unicorns aren't real! But they use to be..."
"Mommy's here!" came the happy sing-song jingle coming up the stairs. Coat, boots, back-pack, tattered old blankie and two videos that shorten the day were all collected. With a hurried 'We'll see you tomorrow' all the noise, life and love exited the house. In its place the tick of the old battery clock over the fireplace and a small dog breathing a lot easier.
' I wish I use to have a unicorn', kept going over and over in my mind. At 4 yrs. old a dream has already died. The belief in, the hope of and the knowledge there never will be, has already come, been and gone from my granddaughters life. For just a blink of an eye she could of had a unicorn. Purple and able to fly across that new field of dreams she had just started to cultivate. Virgin ground without the weeds of reality, that ruin many crops of our dreams. But at four years old the weeds have claimed the hope of a small girl, and her wish of ever owning a unicorn.
The wishes and hopes and dreams of our children are very special. They are the lucky few that can do, be, hope and try to have anything they want. Nurture their field of dreams. Protect it. All to quick someone wants to enter that special area of their imagination and tell them they can't grow that in their environment. The jealous older multitudes that know better, kill young plants in early fields. Watch what your children watch, who they play and talk with. Be mindful of your conversation when they are in the room, and pick up your magazines. Young dreamers have big eyes and ears.
I sometimes wish our kids could grow up like most of us did, without the computer. Childhood mysteries that dad and mom would answer at an appropriate date are now solved over at Billy's house when his mom goes to the mall. I rather enjoyed my childhood knowledge changing from week to week and friend to friend about the opposite sex. It all depended on which friend had the older brother. Dreams were replanted and changed daily. Man I had a lot of wishes in those years.
'I wish I use to have a unicorn'
I wish she still wished she wanted to have a unicorn.
Bob Niles
bobby did this
Grandpa,....Why Do You Go Plopies With The Door Locked? Grandpa? Gran...
Grandpa,....Why Do You Go Plopies With The Door Locked? Grandpa? Gran...
First off let me start by saying I love my grandchildren. The most precious jewel you can have around your neck is the arm of a grandchild. But, a three year old with a never ending source of 'WHYS', that isn't interested in an answer, and will only interject another 'WHY' when you've run out of breath trying to answer the first 'WHY' and who does not tolerate a hinged solid barrier on the bathroom, can be, and sometime is, a nuisance.
I mean I can't remember the last time I made plopies in the last year that hasn't been accompanied by a constant barrage of banging. "Grandpa why is the door locked? " Bang! Boot! Bang! Shasplat! (what the heck was that?) Then come desperate verbal needs. "Grandpa I need a drink! .....No you gave me juice I need water! Grandpa I need to go plopies too!" ( at this juncture the vein that's about to pop in your forehead recedes, and you opt out of what your desperately trying to do.) Grandpa I have to go now!" Bang! Boot! Bang! Shasplat! (there it is again!). All the while doing your best to control your breathing, getting your pulse back to normal, after all the gut busting internal pushing, while finding the air freshener, the wife hides away and only brings out for company "Grandpa why is the door locked? Grandpa! Why can't I get in ?Grandpa!!! I wanna see! ( WHAT? Who is this kid, what kind of parents has she got?) Bang! Boot! Bang! Shasplat! "Rope Rope Rope" (ah...she throwing the dog at the door.)
The reason this is a constant in my life is because the Good Lord has made it possible for me to daycare my granddaughter. A great source of pleasure to me and the wife, but a colon blocking interruption to my constitution.
You know the feeling you get in your stomach? That queasy kind of thank goodness I'm not over at the Jensens, with their guest bathroom right by the room we all visit in. And its not a room filled with loud boisterous party music, but one occupied by quiet silent prayer over the loss of a loved one. The one where your stomach tells you you should go home NOW cause if you don't, you and your future generations can never visit these people again. That feeling?..... Well I don't have that. I'm at the age where thought, pressure, the passing of time and quiet must prevail in order for plopies to transpire.
Knowing this, and when the time arises, I set my granddaughter up with everything she could possibly need, in front of the TV so I can escape to make.....well you know. "Okay Charlotte I've started your favorite show on the TV ( the one she's seen 42 times), you've got juice, two snacks and Lollipop the lamb plus your favorite blanket ( now a rag) Loulou (she names everything!) Does grandpa need to get you anything else?"
Not a word from her, she's lost in an episode of Max and Ruby. It's the one where Max.....? I don't know! He does something! I can't remember I've only seen it 41 times.
Quickly, quietly I make my escape. Stepping over the dog I close and lock (and here lock is important) the bathroom door. My cheeks have not yet conformed to the cool, soothing, molded plastic of the American Standard Harvest Gold toilet seat, when the siege begins. Now you may think "So what! It's a three year old, get a grip!"
True, she is only three, but, I have seen Mongol hoards on horseback attack a walled city with less enthusiasm than this pre-schooler does on a bathroom door.
It starts with that annoying rattling and twisting of the door knob "Grandpa? You in there?" And ends ten minutes later after much pleading begging and reasoning from both parties. The bathroom door now hangs on one hinge and all the squares on the toilet paper roll are equal to the amount I sat down beside moments ago. I'll just wait till she takes a nap, or next time sneak out and use the can at the gas station. At least there I can reason with a would be intruder, and they probably don't want to come in and see....... Or? Oh well...at least I don't have to make him a snack.
Bob Niles.
bobby did this
First off let me start by saying I love my grandchildren. The most precious jewel you can have around your neck is the arm of a grandchild. But, a three year old with a never ending source of 'WHYS', that isn't interested in an answer, and will only interject another 'WHY' when you've run out of breath trying to answer the first 'WHY' and who does not tolerate a hinged solid barrier on the bathroom, can be, and sometime is, a nuisance.
I mean I can't remember the last time I made plopies in the last year that hasn't been accompanied by a constant barrage of banging. "Grandpa why is the door locked? " Bang! Boot! Bang! Shasplat! (what the heck was that?) Then come desperate verbal needs. "Grandpa I need a drink! .....No you gave me juice I need water! Grandpa I need to go plopies too!" ( at this juncture the vein that's about to pop in your forehead recedes, and you opt out of what your desperately trying to do.) Grandpa I have to go now!" Bang! Boot! Bang! Shasplat! (there it is again!). All the while doing your best to control your breathing, getting your pulse back to normal, after all the gut busting internal pushing, while finding the air freshener, the wife hides away and only brings out for company "Grandpa why is the door locked? Grandpa! Why can't I get in ?Grandpa!!! I wanna see! ( WHAT? Who is this kid, what kind of parents has she got?) Bang! Boot! Bang! Shasplat! "Rope Rope Rope" (ah...she throwing the dog at the door.)
The reason this is a constant in my life is because the Good Lord has made it possible for me to daycare my granddaughter. A great source of pleasure to me and the wife, but a colon blocking interruption to my constitution.
You know the feeling you get in your stomach? That queasy kind of thank goodness I'm not over at the Jensens, with their guest bathroom right by the room we all visit in. And its not a room filled with loud boisterous party music, but one occupied by quiet silent prayer over the loss of a loved one. The one where your stomach tells you you should go home NOW cause if you don't, you and your future generations can never visit these people again. That feeling?..... Well I don't have that. I'm at the age where thought, pressure, the passing of time and quiet must prevail in order for plopies to transpire.
Knowing this, and when the time arises, I set my granddaughter up with everything she could possibly need, in front of the TV so I can escape to make.....well you know. "Okay Charlotte I've started your favorite show on the TV ( the one she's seen 42 times), you've got juice, two snacks and Lollipop the lamb plus your favorite blanket ( now a rag) Loulou (she names everything!) Does grandpa need to get you anything else?"
Not a word from her, she's lost in an episode of Max and Ruby. It's the one where Max.....? I don't know! He does something! I can't remember I've only seen it 41 times.
Quickly, quietly I make my escape. Stepping over the dog I close and lock (and here lock is important) the bathroom door. My cheeks have not yet conformed to the cool, soothing, molded plastic of the American Standard Harvest Gold toilet seat, when the siege begins. Now you may think "So what! It's a three year old, get a grip!"
True, she is only three, but, I have seen Mongol hoards on horseback attack a walled city with less enthusiasm than this pre-schooler does on a bathroom door.
It starts with that annoying rattling and twisting of the door knob "Grandpa? You in there?" And ends ten minutes later after much pleading begging and reasoning from both parties. The bathroom door now hangs on one hinge and all the squares on the toilet paper roll are equal to the amount I sat down beside moments ago. I'll just wait till she takes a nap, or next time sneak out and use the can at the gas station. At least there I can reason with a would be intruder, and they probably don't want to come in and see....... Or? Oh well...at least I don't have to make him a snack.
Bob Niles.
bobby did this
Green Cart/ Hot Tub/ Slow Cooker
Green Cart/ Hot Tub/ Slow Cooker
or
How to Eat Out of a Recycling Bin and Get Noticed
Three months have past since the introduction of the 'Green Cart', recycling program. And out of a possible total of five rotten apple cores I give it a three and one half. This self proclaimed above average victory, of my two wheeled multi -purpose ( that's right, multi-purpose) green slow cooker, tub and cart is one I thought I would never proclaim.
Why even the little beige and white the kitchen container that came zip-wire to its shiny toy solider green body is deserving of a round of applause every time I open it's lid.
The 240 liter cart that I was entrusted with, by the City of Richmond, has been a real God send this past summer. July was hot! And because of the water tight properties of my Green Cart it doubled as a personal hot tub. I would half fill my 'Green Tub' with the garden hose in early morning, and by afternoon, I would top off the water level with my bulk for a comfortable dip. And with its privacy lid, one could enjoy a calming soak in the middle of the wife's begonia patch (this location was chosen as to not waste water. After a good soak, and exfoliation, the nutrient rich water was then ladled onto her prize winning perennials. I tried it on the tomatoes but they came out tasting funny.).
Just a cautionary note here....it's a one man tub. Don't get all crazed up some night and you and the wife try to have a romantic interlude in it. The good city of Richmond didn't make it for that purpose. Just cause the patio table was just out of reach......and your wife (on the side with the wheels) reaches too far over,for her light libation, and the cart tips you, her, and what's left of 120 liters of warm hose water, crushing her begonias, doesn't mean you can get after the city of Richmond for poor product design.
What our 'Green Carts' do and are only suppose to do is recycle yard and kitchen waste. But with its ability to retain solar heat,which make it a slow cooker, and hot tub it earns three and one half rotten apple cores out of five.
The cute kitchen container that piggy-backed in on my hot tub was just too nice to fill with rotting, stinking, putrid, or the wifes meatloaf, kitchen waste. I took mine to work for two months as my lunch box. And do you know for those two months I won the companies environment award each month. And, I got a raise! It seems management, watching me eat carrots and celery from my recycling kitchen container, thought I was going the extra mile on environment concerns. And the raise came because my diet, as it would appear, was lacking in anything fresh,or, before it's sell by date.
Again just a note here...it's a great way to get a raise but you will probably be stuck in the warehouse the rest of your career for eating,what would appear to be, garbage.
The round of applause, I give to the kitchen container each time I lift the lid, is just me trying to kill them little #€!!# flies that come with every piece of rotting, stinking, putrid (not the meatloaf, its too hard) piece of fruit. I spin around h kitchen, high and low applauding my little beige box. Why sometimes for no reason at all (it appears) I break into applause. I'm very appreciative!
Again, just a note....You can place the kitchen container in the fridge to rid yourself of these flying nuisances, but tell your spouse what your doing. Because, for the first three days of taking my new lunch box to work, I was eating rotting, stinking, putrid (again not the meatloaf) leftovers, placed there for recycling.
So even with random and loud applause, I'm afraid the kitchen container only achieves one and a half rotting apple cores out of five as a recycling container. Had its lid been air tight a much higher score would of been obtained.
But...as a lunch box! Five rotten apple cores out of five!
Bob Niles
604/761/2466
bobby did this
or
How to Eat Out of a Recycling Bin and Get Noticed
Three months have past since the introduction of the 'Green Cart', recycling program. And out of a possible total of five rotten apple cores I give it a three and one half. This self proclaimed above average victory, of my two wheeled multi -purpose ( that's right, multi-purpose) green slow cooker, tub and cart is one I thought I would never proclaim.
Why even the little beige and white the kitchen container that came zip-wire to its shiny toy solider green body is deserving of a round of applause every time I open it's lid.
The 240 liter cart that I was entrusted with, by the City of Richmond, has been a real God send this past summer. July was hot! And because of the water tight properties of my Green Cart it doubled as a personal hot tub. I would half fill my 'Green Tub' with the garden hose in early morning, and by afternoon, I would top off the water level with my bulk for a comfortable dip. And with its privacy lid, one could enjoy a calming soak in the middle of the wife's begonia patch (this location was chosen as to not waste water. After a good soak, and exfoliation, the nutrient rich water was then ladled onto her prize winning perennials. I tried it on the tomatoes but they came out tasting funny.).
Just a cautionary note here....it's a one man tub. Don't get all crazed up some night and you and the wife try to have a romantic interlude in it. The good city of Richmond didn't make it for that purpose. Just cause the patio table was just out of reach......and your wife (on the side with the wheels) reaches too far over,for her light libation, and the cart tips you, her, and what's left of 120 liters of warm hose water, crushing her begonias, doesn't mean you can get after the city of Richmond for poor product design.
What our 'Green Carts' do and are only suppose to do is recycle yard and kitchen waste. But with its ability to retain solar heat,which make it a slow cooker, and hot tub it earns three and one half rotten apple cores out of five.
The cute kitchen container that piggy-backed in on my hot tub was just too nice to fill with rotting, stinking, putrid, or the wifes meatloaf, kitchen waste. I took mine to work for two months as my lunch box. And do you know for those two months I won the companies environment award each month. And, I got a raise! It seems management, watching me eat carrots and celery from my recycling kitchen container, thought I was going the extra mile on environment concerns. And the raise came because my diet, as it would appear, was lacking in anything fresh,or, before it's sell by date.
Again just a note here...it's a great way to get a raise but you will probably be stuck in the warehouse the rest of your career for eating,what would appear to be, garbage.
The round of applause, I give to the kitchen container each time I lift the lid, is just me trying to kill them little #€!!# flies that come with every piece of rotting, stinking, putrid (not the meatloaf, its too hard) piece of fruit. I spin around h kitchen, high and low applauding my little beige box. Why sometimes for no reason at all (it appears) I break into applause. I'm very appreciative!
Again, just a note....You can place the kitchen container in the fridge to rid yourself of these flying nuisances, but tell your spouse what your doing. Because, for the first three days of taking my new lunch box to work, I was eating rotting, stinking, putrid (again not the meatloaf) leftovers, placed there for recycling.
So even with random and loud applause, I'm afraid the kitchen container only achieves one and a half rotting apple cores out of five as a recycling container. Had its lid been air tight a much higher score would of been obtained.
But...as a lunch box! Five rotten apple cores out of five!
Bob Niles
604/761/2466
bobby did this
C Sharp or B Flat
C Sharp or B Flat
Richmonds RCMP have just completed their 'Distracted Drivers Campaign'. You probably saw them stopping cars and handing out tickets. No? Too busy fiddeling with digits in your lap?....Texting? Apparently we have become like a pubescent boy while we're driving. We are all fasinated with staring at our crotches, or any other little distraction other than commandeering a chunk of Detroit steel down the road. And now we're into the 'Being Seen in Richmond' campaign. Educating pedestrians about crosswalk saftey and how to survive crotch staring drivers. Simply remove headphones while crossing the road, dress in the colours of the 80s and make eye contact with the driver.
Eye contact with the driver! Fat chance of that!
Beside the obvious one of your head hitting the steering wheel, there are so many other reasons eye contact either by you or them is seldom possible.
Your only chance of getting eye contact with a driver and cross the road safely is if you're a very attractive female and the driver is a 16yr. old boy with no data plan. And here the driver must be a young male. Older males with a wife in the car would not dare make eye contact with a beautiful girl for fear of instant reprisals from the wife riding shotgun (how do you think it got that name) If its an older male without the wife, don't you make eye contact. They don't need much encouragement to run amuck. And if it's a really old guy try to make eye contact. Jump up and down, blow a whistle, fire a gun, do anything to get his attention. Here you might get eye contact but that doesn't mean he'll see you.
Never, and here I mean never, cross the street in front of a woman putting on make-up while driving. Forget eye contact, they're too busy making contact with their own eyes. They're in the rear view mirror, sun visor mirror or the side mirror (depending on the time of day)making themselves beautiful. It's eyes and cheeks, hair and lips painting and powdering, waiting for he driver behind them to lay on the horn to let them know to go. And they go without looking racing to he next light to put on the other eyelash.
A mom with kids is usually a safe bet to cross in front of a light on. And here again if youre waiting for eye contact don't bother. Moms use traffic lights like Formula 1 drivers use pit stops. They wipe noses, open juice boxes, settle disputes, retrieve toys from the floor, dole out treats, have to turn around and "Look at this!" and become judge and jury as to just who touched who first. And all this is briefly interrupted with the outlying scenery in fluid position then to become fixed again at the next stoplight. Repeat.
If you want to cross the road safely try the musical rule that has gotten me to my ripe old age. C Sharp or B Flat.
Bob Niles
604-761-2466
bobby did this
Richmonds RCMP have just completed their 'Distracted Drivers Campaign'. You probably saw them stopping cars and handing out tickets. No? Too busy fiddeling with digits in your lap?....Texting? Apparently we have become like a pubescent boy while we're driving. We are all fasinated with staring at our crotches, or any other little distraction other than commandeering a chunk of Detroit steel down the road. And now we're into the 'Being Seen in Richmond' campaign. Educating pedestrians about crosswalk saftey and how to survive crotch staring drivers. Simply remove headphones while crossing the road, dress in the colours of the 80s and make eye contact with the driver.
Eye contact with the driver! Fat chance of that!
Beside the obvious one of your head hitting the steering wheel, there are so many other reasons eye contact either by you or them is seldom possible.
Your only chance of getting eye contact with a driver and cross the road safely is if you're a very attractive female and the driver is a 16yr. old boy with no data plan. And here the driver must be a young male. Older males with a wife in the car would not dare make eye contact with a beautiful girl for fear of instant reprisals from the wife riding shotgun (how do you think it got that name) If its an older male without the wife, don't you make eye contact. They don't need much encouragement to run amuck. And if it's a really old guy try to make eye contact. Jump up and down, blow a whistle, fire a gun, do anything to get his attention. Here you might get eye contact but that doesn't mean he'll see you.
Never, and here I mean never, cross the street in front of a woman putting on make-up while driving. Forget eye contact, they're too busy making contact with their own eyes. They're in the rear view mirror, sun visor mirror or the side mirror (depending on the time of day)making themselves beautiful. It's eyes and cheeks, hair and lips painting and powdering, waiting for he driver behind them to lay on the horn to let them know to go. And they go without looking racing to he next light to put on the other eyelash.
A mom with kids is usually a safe bet to cross in front of a light on. And here again if youre waiting for eye contact don't bother. Moms use traffic lights like Formula 1 drivers use pit stops. They wipe noses, open juice boxes, settle disputes, retrieve toys from the floor, dole out treats, have to turn around and "Look at this!" and become judge and jury as to just who touched who first. And all this is briefly interrupted with the outlying scenery in fluid position then to become fixed again at the next stoplight. Repeat.
If you want to cross the road safely try the musical rule that has gotten me to my ripe old age. C Sharp or B Flat.
Bob Niles
604-761-2466
bobby did this
Here's my 2 Cents on the Penny, and the Single Digit it Represents
Here's my 2 Cents on the Penny, and the Single Digit it Represents
( and after I round it down)
Here Goes Nothing!
Find a penny, pick it up. And all day long you'll have a penny.
Although now true, that idiom is suppose to end 'And all day long you'll have good luck', but the luck of the penny, and might I suggest, our lonely number '1' has all but faded.
Nobody wants the penny or the number '1" anymore it seems. One of anything just isn't enough of everything. I'm watching aTV commercial for..., let's say, a product I can spray from a can on my screen door to replace the bottom of my boat, so that it still floats. Who wouldn't want that right? Just $19.95! But wait! Well send you '2' cans, (cause you might have '2' boats and '2' screen doors). "I wasn't going to buy that crap for $20 bucks but make it '2' cans and you got a deal!"
'2' for '1' Pizzas! Second pair of glasses free! BOGO! Buy '1' Get '1' Free! Get the second '1' 50% off! Cause you're not happy with '1'. You have to have 2! Its cheaper! "Look at the money I saved by not buying '1'. '1' is crazy!
To have only '1' of something is not enough. Having only '1' means you could of done better. Hang your head in shame. But 2! People are proud of two. "I have a two car garage." Two bathroom basins. Two vacations a year. Two means you're rich. Having only '1', means you cant afford '2'. You're poor. The only place in our lives where '1' is admired is in our marriage ceremonies. 'May the '2' become '1'. '2' lives coming together to live as '1', promotes the use of the number '1' as a positive thing. But statistics show that it's really not working out. Besides when the '2' become '1' they usually wind up with '3'. So it's not really a true '1'.
'1' is the loneliest number, sang Three Dog Night in the sixties. To be '1' you're lonely. We've written song after song crying about being '1'. Alone. Incomplete. We don't want to be '1'.
When we do manage to still buy '1' of '1' thing, we feel the need to supersize it. Now that it three times bigger than '1', we can live with it.
So since we're getting rid of the penny, the former first unit in our currency, let's do away with '1' as well. We hardly ever use it. Don't really want it. Its not enough! '1' makes us look poor. And it makes us sad.
Unfortunately, if my plan is adopted, its the children who will hurt the most. Now when mom or dad counts to three before judgement is laid down, three comes '1' count sooner. 2-3 WHAM! But by adopting, the dropping of the '1', and the amount of times the threat is used daily, the parent counting to 3 will have so much extra leisure time with '1' gone.
The only '1' we will still have to put up with is that crappy all encompassing, "1 moment please". They say '1' but you know they mean many. And how long is '1' moment? It differs with everybody!
So as we bid a fond farewell to our once shiny penny and the single digit it represented, lets also be realistic and admit the time has come to also bid adieu to the suffering '1'. Oh sure we can keep it, and use it in conjuncture with other numbers, but '1' cannot stand alone. And, now it's '2' pennies for your thoughts with an equal '2' cents worth of sound advice given. Never more that awkward who owes who when '1' is asked for, but '2' is given.
Bob Niles
bobby did this
( and after I round it down)
Here Goes Nothing!
Find a penny, pick it up. And all day long you'll have a penny.
Although now true, that idiom is suppose to end 'And all day long you'll have good luck', but the luck of the penny, and might I suggest, our lonely number '1' has all but faded.
Nobody wants the penny or the number '1" anymore it seems. One of anything just isn't enough of everything. I'm watching aTV commercial for..., let's say, a product I can spray from a can on my screen door to replace the bottom of my boat, so that it still floats. Who wouldn't want that right? Just $19.95! But wait! Well send you '2' cans, (cause you might have '2' boats and '2' screen doors). "I wasn't going to buy that crap for $20 bucks but make it '2' cans and you got a deal!"
'2' for '1' Pizzas! Second pair of glasses free! BOGO! Buy '1' Get '1' Free! Get the second '1' 50% off! Cause you're not happy with '1'. You have to have 2! Its cheaper! "Look at the money I saved by not buying '1'. '1' is crazy!
To have only '1' of something is not enough. Having only '1' means you could of done better. Hang your head in shame. But 2! People are proud of two. "I have a two car garage." Two bathroom basins. Two vacations a year. Two means you're rich. Having only '1', means you cant afford '2'. You're poor. The only place in our lives where '1' is admired is in our marriage ceremonies. 'May the '2' become '1'. '2' lives coming together to live as '1', promotes the use of the number '1' as a positive thing. But statistics show that it's really not working out. Besides when the '2' become '1' they usually wind up with '3'. So it's not really a true '1'.
'1' is the loneliest number, sang Three Dog Night in the sixties. To be '1' you're lonely. We've written song after song crying about being '1'. Alone. Incomplete. We don't want to be '1'.
When we do manage to still buy '1' of '1' thing, we feel the need to supersize it. Now that it three times bigger than '1', we can live with it.
So since we're getting rid of the penny, the former first unit in our currency, let's do away with '1' as well. We hardly ever use it. Don't really want it. Its not enough! '1' makes us look poor. And it makes us sad.
Unfortunately, if my plan is adopted, its the children who will hurt the most. Now when mom or dad counts to three before judgement is laid down, three comes '1' count sooner. 2-3 WHAM! But by adopting, the dropping of the '1', and the amount of times the threat is used daily, the parent counting to 3 will have so much extra leisure time with '1' gone.
The only '1' we will still have to put up with is that crappy all encompassing, "1 moment please". They say '1' but you know they mean many. And how long is '1' moment? It differs with everybody!
So as we bid a fond farewell to our once shiny penny and the single digit it represented, lets also be realistic and admit the time has come to also bid adieu to the suffering '1'. Oh sure we can keep it, and use it in conjuncture with other numbers, but '1' cannot stand alone. And, now it's '2' pennies for your thoughts with an equal '2' cents worth of sound advice given. Never more that awkward who owes who when '1' is asked for, but '2' is given.
Bob Niles
bobby did this
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