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 |  Am I supposed to write? |
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** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Documenting the trials and tribulations of sharing my writing. I know it will be a grand adventure. I'm sure I'll get a sore butt from the bumps along the way, but they are just part of the ride. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| I didn't mean to and it is not what you think. There is a neighbourhood cat which visits my yard often. She's friendly and has never caused any harm. On the cooler days, she can be found stretched on a piece of the patio absorbing rays. As it gets warmer, I often find her in the vegetable garden, laying in the furrows trying to stay cool. This evening Misha, that's the name on her collar, was rolling around the cherry tomatoes. She melts into the dirt, waits for a bird then attacks. She doesn't usually stay long. Something in the garden, the trees, the sky, eventually gets her attention and she disappears. I returned to the patio after dinner and thought it was funny she was still hanging around. On her back and rolling in the grass, she showed no inclination towards leaving. She was still in the vegetable patch when I finished watering the front gardens. I thought it odd but nothing clicked until I reached the back corner. I tried a new herb this year.  Nothing illegal, sorry to disappoint. I planted catnip. It was supposed to be a treat for and Milo and Otis . Never once did I think about stray cats finding the crop.Misha chewed and clawed and rolled over four plants. She is still laying on her side, stretched across a patio stone at the edge of the garden. I had to pet her to make sure she was still breathing. She was and still is; vegging and enjoying the buzz. I wonder if she'll have the munchies in another hour? |
| Miss V. wasted no time in choosing story #3. I did suspect this was going to be the event she wanted me to blog about. Even I have to admit it was funny. I have worked a variety of jobs. For a couple of years, I enjoyed the experience of working at a winery. There are several stories associated with this job but the trip to the Midwest Outdoor Sportsmen Show in Cleveland, Ohio seems to be the one people like to hear. Attending this exhibition was an annual event. We went to promote Pelee Island and get the Americans to spend their money at our wine pavillion. For the winery it was one of the more important shows of the year. Part of the duties at the show include setting up the booth. We were assigned a 15 x 15 piece of cement floor, tucked behind and beside other 15 x 15 booths. We paid a premium to be on a corner for maximum exposure, although people always manage to find the booths which are booze related. Above the exhibition floor hangs support beams with electrical service. Attendees may hang flags or tie down displays to this structure. Each block of booths has an electrical frame independent from the other sections of displays. You could say it was the backbone of the booths. I don't mean to bore you but this electrical support structure is an essential part of the story. My colleague and I were the first to use our new booth back drop. It was a HUGE aerial photograph of the island broken into nine, 3' x 3' squares. It should be easily assembled, like a puzzle and will be situated at the back of the booth so we may show people the location of the marina, our vineyards and the wine pavillion. This allowed people to come right into the booth where they became our captive audience. We laughed at the suggestion we should practice before we go. We were intelligent women who could easily be able to figure out "insert piece A into piece B". PIeces one through six went together quickly and easily. It was piece seven which presented the problem, We now had a picture wall which stands six feet tall. I'm 5'8" but it would still be a reach. And, piece 7 would not stand on it's own until piece 8 was secured. As we didn't do a dress rehearsal we never thought of bringing a step ladder. Being creative, we found an abandoned chair. I only needed a bit of height so this should do. Please keep in mind, we were not alone. There were over 400 exhibitors all assembling their booths. Those who had the earliest times were done and now wandered the aisles watching the rest of us get ready. A boat salesman dropped by our booth. He was one of the first to set up as they moved boats into the exhibition centre. His name was Herb. While I am trying to figure out the best way to finish our puzzle, Dandy Mandy flirted. In my wisdom, I attached pieces seven and eight and thought I could snap them into the top at the same time. I interupted Herb and Mandy to ask for assistance. I should be able to do this on my own but having someone ready to catch me, or the backdrop pieces, could not be a bad idea. Up I got onto the plastic chair. Mandy passed me one side of the puzzle block and supported the other end while I lifted. This is when things went bad fast. Piece 7 and 8 disconnected. The momentum from the separation sent me forward and almost into the back of the booth already set behind us. Piece 7 fell to the floor as I looked for something to grab and prevent me from falling. I grabbed a piece of the support structure and held on. As I did this, the chair toppled over leaving me hanging and my body about to swing into the booths behind and beside. Quick thinking Herb grabbed me around the hips trying to keep me from swinging forward. Trying to be a gentleman, he was gently holding my elastic waist pants rather than putting his hands on me. As boxes of wine and brochures were still scattered around our square, Herb did not have much space to work with. I'm now holding onto the support poles, Herb is braced against a stack of wine cases trying to get a firm grasp of me around the hips. Amanda is on her ass laughing, drawing the attention of the other vendors. All I could think of is the booths collapsing like dominoes if I lose my grip and fall into the two exhibits surrounding us. I should have been worried about my pants. As our minds are elsewhere, we didn't notice my sweats creeping down my body. Herb is trying to pull me to safety but only my pants are moving. Herb went to give me one good pull and yanked my pants to my ankles. My legs dropped over the cases of wine and another entertained vendor came over and supported my shoulders so I could let go of the electrical structue. Yes, I was now in my panties, laying over boxes of wine looking like I was ready to get it up the ass. Pictures were taken and the laughter abundant, however, the other booths were undisturbed. No one can say I don't live up to my word. I have now shared some of my most embarassing stories and can return to gossiping about others. |
| For more than a couple of weeks now, there has been an odour in my house which is not altogether pleasant nor completely offensive. Because of its weak character, finding the source has not been easy. I did not worry as I knew I was doing my annual spring cleaning the first weekend in June; always the first weekend in June. There is nothing lots and lots and lots of bleach won't kill. And so I cleaned... I scrubbed floors and garbage cans. I shampooed rugs and washed walls. After all the hard work, I even found the energy to do the dishes, the laundry AND change the kitty litter. The entire experience was quite therapeutic. I sat on my patio and enjoyed a well deserved beer. I let the fresh air cleanse the smell of bleach and antiseptic from my nose. I noticed my filthy windows and put them on my "To Do" list for another weekend. After ample rest, I was ready for re-entry. Now, the sniff test... If there is an odd smell in any house, one notices it upon arrival. Over time, our olfactory senses adjust to the stink and it blends into life. It is when you first walk through the door any lingering bad odours hit you. I bravely marched into my house and took a deep breath; nothing but clean. Success! I fought the smell and I won. I would feel no guilt about going out with friends now that I had beat down my nemesis. Feeling very "Martha Stewart" like, following dinner, drinks and a few games of pool, I invited my friends back to the house for more food, more drinks and a few games of pool. We moved our soiree to my place where I had to show off my new outdoor furniture. It was a pleasant evening, a fabulous night to sit on the patio. We got comfortable on the new, fake teak, furnishings and the refinished, cedar Adirondack chairs. We enjoyed some, maybe more like many, bevies from the cooler, which resides under the bench against the house during the summer months. Eventually the libations caught up to our bladders and someone had to pee. Without hesitation I unlock the door to allow my guests to use the facilities. My head almost imploded when I was greeted by that smell. The scent of Mr. Clean and Javex were present as well but that smell had definitely returned. What the fuck was it? Of course my friends were polite and said they smelled nothing but clean. I knew they were lying. After much begging, I coaxed one into helping me search for the cause of my most recent gray hairs. I dragged her back to the patio for fresh air and then back into the house. "That smell!" My eyes begged her for an answer but my ears heard her laughter. "You've got to be kidding?" she finally spit out when she was done laughing. "Explain yourself." I was close to begging because I knew, she knew. And she knew, I knew, she knew. "Frito feet." "Huh?" "What don't you get?" "Huh?" "Y-o-u-r f-e-e-t s-m-e-l-l." "Huh? They do not! Huh?" She didn't say anything more. She did point down to the shoe mat, inside the door, on which sat a pair of garden shoes and a left and right clog. Both pairs had seen their better days. Now they apparently house a permanent fragrance known as "Frito feet", which isn't complimentary in case you were wondering. I wish I could blame this on the booze however I don't make it a habit to be drunk for more than two days at a time and that smell has been around for much longer than that. I can't tell you why I couldn't figure this out on my own. Perhaps I'm a bit narcissistic and not ready to deal with the fact I may have a fault. |
| It seems there are a couple of readers still waiting for my next confession. I was not avoiding the embarassment, I was waiting for Miss V. to pick story #2. A long, long time ago in a land far, far away..... All right it wasn't that long ago nor that far away; I only wish it was. I'll skip the details of getting drunk. Suffice to say many shots were consumed and washed down with great amounts of beer. The drinking continued until the bar closed at 1 am. Yes, there was a time last call was at 1 am, televisions didn't have remotes and there was no internet. Anyways..... The girls and I had some energy to use up. It was 1 o'clock in the morning, we were drunk and in need of Mr. Freezies. We stumbled to the only 24 hour convenience store in Backwoods, Ontario and got our freezie fix. When you are in an altered state having fun with your friends, you don't realize you've been walking for over an hour; at least we didn't. The walk back to the motel seemed endless. We had many rests along the way. It was my laziness which got me into trouble. We took a break at a park bench. Of course, the bench could only seat three of us. Me being as lazy as I am, decided to sit on top of a wooden barrel next to the bench. Bad idea! Within moments of my placing my oversized load on top, the lid of the barrel collapsed. My ass fell into the barrel with the lid. This is funny because I was not hurt. Yes, I got a bit scratched up and received a few bruises but no serious injuries, except to my pride. You see, when I fell into the barrel, I got stuck. My bum dropped to the bottom of the barrel. My knees hung over the edge while my back was against the side of the barrel and my head barely sticking out. I could only hold my arms straight up. There was no way I could get myself out of this thing. At a moment like this, one would think friends would help. Not mine! They laughed and made fun of me and when they got tired of doing that, they wandered back to the motel to get help. Not a one of them stayed with me. While they were in search of a rescue team, the local police happened by. This made me a bit nervous. In small towns you tend to find the cops are complete pricks or super nice guys. I was lucky and met nice guys who could not resist having a bit of fun at my expense. I shared my story with them. They weren't surprised to find out I was with the rowdy group staying at Doug's motel. Doug had warned them we were coming. We proceeded to have a nice visit at 2:45 in the morning along a dark street with both cops now sitting on the bench previously occupied by my fellow drunks. "There must be a reason your friends left you here." "Payback. I laugh at them all the time." "And should we assume alcohol is involved?" "Of course booze is involved! What else is there to do here?" "And you definitely can't get yourself out?" "If I could, don't you think I would have by now? If you are wondering, this isn't comfortable." "You haven't asked us for help yet?" "I guess I assumed it was your job?" "Maybe if you rocked the barrel it would fall over and you could get yourself out?" "I did think about that but I was afraid I'd crack my head open." "Or spill your beer?" Yes, in all the excitement I had forgotten I was still holding a beer. When I fell through the barrel I hadn't spilled a drop. This was quite the accomplishment. However, once trapped in my barrel, an open beer on a public street seemed to be the least of my worries. They asked me for my ID which I had with me but couldn't give them as it was safely tucked into my back pocket which was now situated at the bottom of the barrel. One of the officers took a walk while talking on the radio. Once again I made an incorrect assumption he was telling other cops about me. It was worse. The cop had made a call to the local newspaper photographer, a friend of his. I guess the the thought of me trapped in a barrel was enough to motivate him to get out of bed and come take a picture. Once the photo shoot was complete, my new found friends unstuck me and granted me my freedom. They even insisted on giving me a ride back to the motel. Apparently there were three or four more barrels along the way and they didn't want me to have another adventure. Upon returning to the motel, most of my friends were hanging out on the veranda. They tried to explain they were formulating a plan to free me but I didn't, and still don't, believe them. We got a pleasant reminder from the men in blue about responsible alcoholic consumption after which my new friends left. I let my old friends laugh at me and then retired for the night. I knew I'd hear jokes for a few days but was sure somebody would eventually do something dumber to make this incident nothing but a memory. Things were going as planned until the weekly paper came out. There I was on the front page!! As I didn't live there, this would be no big deal BUT Doug, our innkeeper is the brother of a friend who lives here. Doug could not resist sending his brother several copies of the paper. These papers managed to find their way to almost everyplace I visited on a regular basis. There is still a framed copy hanging in a local bar. Ahhhh, the good old days. |
| In order to understand some of my stories, you need to know about the people who surround me, particularly my neighbours. They are a great source of amusement and are responsible for about half of my spontaneous outbursts of laughter in any given day. Before I make fun of them, let me introduce you. We'll start across the street and to the left with Sylvia and Al1, a couple of antiques who are enjoying the golden years. The house has a two car garage they don't use because Al's classic cars are stored inside. These are cars which are rarely driven but need protection from the elements. On nice days, I don't think about it much but when it's pouring rain and I see this little old lady running between raindrops to get to her PT Cruiser, I think she must love him. She also chauffeurs him around as he doesn't like to use HIS cars and she won't let him drive HER car. He plays passenger or he walks. I've seen him choose both options. Next to the "Old Folks", across the street to the right, are Bob and his family. There are three of them living there with four cars. I mention the cars because they seem to be a problem for the family. In the past three years alone, I can recall almost two dozen accidents in their driveway or on the street by their driveway. They aren't a patient family. The neighbours behind me aren't as entertaining. Annoying is a better description with the exception of one. One pain in the ass lives directly behind me. His yard is a t)ad narrower than mine. This means I share about 20 feet of fence with a friendly man who is only here 6 months of the year. We share small talk while we train renegade ivy through the chain link fence. Nice dude. We often mock the neighbour we share; the previously referred to ass. Now Mr. Jackass has so many faults, listing them would be boring. Over time, I'm sure to reveal them to you. I will tell you he is not lucky enough to have TWO passive neighbours. While Mr. Ivy Training Laid Back Neighbour is behind and to the right, Mr. Jackass's arch enemy, Mr. My Dick is bigger than Yours, is behind to the left. By their names I'm sure you can imagine how their antics are grating on one's nerves. Yes, I do have neighbours to the left and right. I wanted to save the best to last. A recent retiree (he accepted a golden handshake from Ma Bell when he fell off his roof last year and broke his leg in two places), his wife and youngest son are beside me to the left. The kids have always been great, even when all three boys were at home, they were good neighbours. Retiree is friendly. He always waves and he must visit if I see him in the yard. His wife is a different story. The missus is anti-social and a snob. I don't know how she survives in a house of men. It's not getting easier for her as the kids leave. The entire neighbourhood shares in their woes as the fights between husband and wife are heard by all with the nice weather here and windows wide open. Finally, there's Barry on the other side of me. He's my favourite although this year he's getting on my nerves. He is also a recent retiree. He was an autoworker until this past February. He's never had much luck with women and I don't know why. His dating life could be entries on their own. Year round, his yard is lit up like a Griswald's Christmas. At the beginning of the summer we count the lights in his yard. He lets me know if he adds (which he always does) or removes (only if it's not working) any lights. For a Loonie, you can guess how many lights are in his yard; guess must be +/- 3 in order to be declared a winner. Winner gets half the pot and the pot starts new each spring. Now that you've made their acquaintance, I will feel much better about exposing their lives. Footnotes |
| Yes, this colour is a bit hard to read but it is a colour of celebration. Today I am an aunt. I'm fortunate to have been blessed with a wonderful little niece. Her arrival was rather dramatic. She was expected July 16 and definitely no sooner. There is some myth the first child is always late. My sister has done few things in her life on time and almost nothing early. Nobody expected to see the baby in MAY!! After a few scary hours, she arrived; a 4 pound 15 ounce bundle of joy. She was checked over and moved into her own little house, a warm incubator which will help protect her from the evils of the world until she's a bit older. It, plus the itsy, bitsy, teenie, weenie so small it's almost cute, respirator are doing their jobs. Last night I heard a weak squeak. Tonight I heard a cry loud enough to quash any concerns I had about her lungs. I've always wondered why a mother is never as annoyed with her child's cry as the others listening to the same noise. A mother knows by the cry, whatever else is wrong, the child is in relatively good shape if they have the strength to make a noise known to break the spirits of grown men. And they can do it for such long periods of time. I enjoyed every second of it. |
| Woo hoo! It's vacation time. I'm off to the woods to cook over an open fire and sleep under the stars. I can't imagine anything more wonderful. See you all next week. |
Last night I wrote the winning story for "Short Shots: Official WDC Contest"  . The writing was amazing. My imagery brilliant. The piece was both emotional and funny. It would have been a serious injustice if I lost.Do you hear the "but" coming? There is always a "but". I dreamt my story. It's not surprising. I stared at the picture, looking for inspiration, for close to an hour before I fell asleep. Once I entered dreamland, my subconscious did the rest. I can feel the emotion of the story. The writing truly flowed. The dialogue was fantastic as the characters contemplated the secret behind the door. It was magnificent. Daybreak came and the story vanished. Bits and pieces came back to me while I had my morning coffee. The emotions came rushing back when I opened WDC and checked on my favourites. The words however, did not follow. I'm not giving up. I leave the picture on my desk to prompt my memory. I've tried to put pen to paper but I can only see the story. I'm struggling to share. Any words I write don't do justice to the story in my head. I can't make the colours bright enough nor the trees big enough. I can't communicate the love shared between my characters. I want the reader to feel the grandfather's arms hugging his beloved granddaughter. I want the reader to feel the mystery. Anybody can describe a scene, a writer imparts a story. Am I upto the challenge? |
| I mock the term Metrosexual however I understand the expression. Eventually the word will go the way of Preppie and Yuppie; a memory associated with the turn of the millenium. I'm also familar with the cliches Baby Boomers and Generation X; Goths and Ivy Leaguers. There seems to be a term for almost everybody out there, everybody but me. Don't misunderstand me, I've been called plenty of things; many of them worse than what you're thinking right now. Those were personal opinions / observations. I've never truly been defined by any social stereotype. There was my brief period of being a Wanker while in high school but my dad put an abrupt ending to the social experiment. What do you call an intelligent, independent woman who is comfortable with herself? Amazing? Magnificent? These words don't capture my essence or the spirit of the thousands of women like me. We're confident, we won't be dominated. We enjoy men but don't need them. We are single, each for our own reason, and we are okay with this. We'd rather be in the audience of a live sporting event than suffer an afternoon of shopping. Whatever you do, if you are afraid of the answer, don't ask the question. We're going to give you an honest answer. The first word which comes to mind is the obvious one, bitch. I find it amazing how the more successful a woman becomes, the bigger bitch she is. Why is it we can't be labelled professionally outstanding and kind? I'm both. I've thought about many names for this group of women, liked none. I am stymied. I don't like to be stymied. There must be a name for us on the internet. Everything is on the internet. And if it's on the internet, we know it's so. |
| My friend Miss V is flattered to be the topic of a blog. She feels it gives her silly life another purpose. This means there should be many funny Miss V stories in our future. However, there is always give and take. Miss V insists if I'm going to share her silly adventures I must share a couple of mine. Apparently I have a knack for talking about everything but myself. As part of our negotiations, she has selected three funny stories about me, I am to share with the world. It's not like I wouldn't have shared these tales if someone had asked me about them. Don't ask, don't tell; great advice. While I can't help but smile when I think of the three particular stories Miss V has selected, I don't think they are very funny. At this point it really doesn't matter what I think, a deal is a deal. Besides, what I'll be blogging about Miss V is going to be far worse than any story anybody shares about me. STORY 1 For those of you who are new, I play pool. I love the game. I travel a fair bit to play in different tournaments. I never know what the temperature of the tournament halls will be so I have become a fan of dressing in layers. You must also know I am a big fan of "The Mock". I am perfect. This gives me the right to laugh endlessly at others, to ridicule their lives and decisions. I find hours of entertainment at the expense of others. You will soon see why I share this with you. While at a pool tournament I spot a woman with an infant. This pissed me off. Truth be told, the smoke in the hall was choking the players so I couldn't help but imagine what devastating effects being surrounded by smoke, loud noises and hundreds of drunks would have on this child. From my soapbox I preached the many reasons the child shouldn't be at the tournament. During the rant I began to list the reasons any normal mother would not want to bring a child here. It was during this part of the speech I became quite animated and did notice the number of people observing my antics is growing. As the topic of feeding comes up I ask my audience "What am I supposed to do with the crying kid. Just whip out my boob and have it latch on?" For dramatic effect I lift my fleece (remember layers) straight up, covering my face and cup my left breast with the other hand. Yes, it was a rude gesture. No, I have zero excuses for my behaviour. I was drunk, had an audience and was pissed off. Kharma bit me in the ass. As I cupped my own boob, I did not feel the cotton of a t-shirt but the satin finish of my half-cup push up bra. Static cling caused my t-shirt to be raised over my head along with the fleece. The majority of the tournament hall was now looking at me, holding my own mostly exposed breast. An embarassing moment witnessed by hundreds, many with cameras. In this single moment, I became Boobie Girl. I lowered my shirts, accepted the applause and took a bow. It happened. I couldn't change it. I moved on. I kept moving until the monthly magazine came out. It contained what you ask? Yes, a picture of Boobie Girl. Now the picture had a big black bar across my chest which made the image seem so much worse than it was. I still hear the whispers and the snickers when I go to tournaments. It makes me laugh. I hear the story several times over a weekend; everybody seeming to think some how I would forget this event. One confession down, two to go. |
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