Ever since I bought a used smartphone a few years ago, I have noticed a strange thing happening when I send text messages. Every once in a while, my oversized gorilla fingers touch the wrong button and the bottom half of the screen is suddenly filled with this strange thing with a wavy line running through it. I’ve tried to ignore it and soldier on but it’s been a real pain.
On Sunday, as I was texting a message, the random screen popped up again. This time, I was shocked to see words appearing at the end of my message that I hadn’t typed.
“What the hell?” I asked, then was flabbergasted (my all-time favourite word) when the words “What the hell?” appeared on my message. To test this out, I said a few more words: “This is just crazy.” Sure enough, “This is just crazy” appeared in my message too.
So, brave new world, here I come. Finally, I can give my stubby digits a rest and talk and text instead by tapping a microphone icon at the bottom of the screen.
I just hope my editing skills are up to par and I don’t click send on a muttered remark such as, “Why does this silly person keep texting me?” or “I wish I could just ignore this idiot.”
What we don’t have enough of in this world are people who hit you when they’re talking to you. Man I just love that.
To keep your attention, I guess, the uninvited guest in your personal space keeps tapping you on the leg, the knee, the forearm, the elbow – any dangly part that can be reached – as they relate their fascinating tales, which are whispered conspiratorially as though the code to the U.S. nuclear warheads supply was being revealed. And gosh darn it (sorry for the foul language), their stories do compel.
In their presence, I am almost tempted to tell them that with narratives as captivating as they regularly roll out, there is no need for them to assault the people around them to get them to listen. But then, if I provided talker-hitters with that opinion, they might stop with the tapping and my gosh (there I go again), I love it. Maybe I even need it.
I sat beside such a touch-feely raconteur at an event the other day and I found myself fighting the urge to place body parts within his reach that he hadn’t yet tapped. It was a thrill listening to his tales and a cheap thrill feeling his hand all over my body. Well, not ALL over. That’s my secret goal for the next time we sit side by side. Which can’t come soon enough.
And yes, I promise to come out with my hands up, officer.
My wife and I are different in many ways. She loves doing puzzles, I’d rather sit naked in a pot of honey and then go find a bears’ den to moon than do a puzzle. I don’t see the point of sitting for hours flipping over little pieces of cardboard to try to reassemble what was a perfectly good picture till some demented soul with a bunch of goofy cookie cutters blew the whole thing apart.
The same brain that feels satisfaction piecing together a cruelly dismembered depiction of some sort or other also enjoys endless knitting sessions or hours of playing solitaire on a computer. If I ever play solitaire on our computer I sincerely hope the police will come and arrest me and put me to work breaking rocks in a remote rock pile in Siberia.
My point is, how can anyone find joy in sitting down at a table covered by 2,000 randomly shaped puzzle pieces with an eye to reconstructing something that should have been left alone all along?
So when I hear the telltale flip of the puzzle pieces on the table, I go out to my garage and tinker. The thing I love to do most, and it is a very engaging task, is to sort through the chaos out there and try to bring some order.
For example, I was recently given several cardboard boxes and mutliple plastic bags all full of screwnails. Mixed in among the drywall screws, decks screws, fence screws, metal screws, and concrete screws, are assorted nuts and washers. Also, there are dozens of common nails, spikes, ardocs, concrete nails and finishing nails. Also sharing containers with all these screwnails and old-fashioned nails, are various sizes of plastic drywall plugs, plastic electrical wire connectors and hooks of every description.
I love to dump the containers of goodies out on my workbench and I can spend hours isolating items according to type and size and dropping them into empty peanut butter jars I have collected. When I accumulate new jars, I like to dump all the full ones on the table again and sort them into finer and more specific categories.
I have enough of this inventory to build a space shuttle or at least a really fancy sandbox for kids. But I will never use 95 per cent of all the material I love to sort and I know that going in. Very little is actually accomplished, therefore, by all this activity, but my mind is strangely calm and satisfied at the conclusion of each session.
But you wouldn’t see me put together a puzzle if the executioner said he wouldn’t give the riflemen the signal if I could complete, in three hours, a 200-piece puzzle showing a horse standing in a field. I would look him straight in the eye and yell, defiantly, “FIRE!!!!”
Yes, my wife and I are so different. It’s a wonder we’re still together after all this time.
You might have to juggle three balls in the air at once to follow this, but I’ll try my best to make it easy for you.
Last week, I went to my dental office to pay a bill. While at the front counter, a dental hygienist in scrubs appeared and I called out to her. “Rebecca,” I yelled. She corrected me. Her name was Amanda. “You cleaned my teeth in January and told me to buy an electric toothbrush but I forgot what kind.” She very nicely gave me her recommendation, though she seemed a bit hesitant.
Back to the dentist for another cleaning I went today, and when the hygienist in scrubs came to the waiting room to get me, I said, “Hi Amanda,” very proud to have gotten the name right this time. “My name is Michelle,” she replied. I explained my previous visit and conversation with the phantom hygienist. “There is an Amanda here,” explained Michelle, helpfully.
I dutifully reclined in the dentist’s chair and Michelle got to work. At times, the inside of my 66-year-old mouth looks like an abandoned warehouse, with windows broken and graffiti everywhere. I felt sorry for her but she soldiered on. She is a brave soul, I will give her that much.
I enjoyed Rebecca/Amanda/Michelle during our first encounter in January. We talked about our kids and she seemed to enjoy my sense of humour. Anyone who makes the mistake of laughing at something I say is just asking for it, so I like her but I have no sympathy for her. She would get what she deserved.
Suddenly, my smartphone went off, as someone had sent me a text message.
“Quack, quack, quack, quack,” went the phone, loudly repeating the alert sound I had chosen for texts.
“Sorry,” I said to RAM. “I’ve got a duck in my pocket.”
She seemed to like that so I was compelled to follow it up. When she took a break, I continued, “Its name is Clarence.” A few seconds later, four more quacks.
“It’s noon,” said my multi-named hygienist. “Is Clarence getting hungry?” I like people who humour me when I am humouring them.
However, the fun would come to an end when she found a broken tooth among the flotsam and jetsam inside my gob. She decided it needed to be fixed and I agreed. When the cleaning was done, I was ushered into another room and lay myself down on another reclining chair.
A dentist came in, asked how I was doing, and proceeded to inject some cement into the hole left by the broken tooth. Then he left. He was replaced by what I am assuming was another dental assistant who tightened a big clamp around the cement to form it up, sort of like two-by-fours holding a freshly poured sidewalk together. Meanwhile, another woman stuck a small vacuum in my mouth to suck up the fluids so the cement could set.
While all this was going on, Clarence started quacking again so I repeated the joke that I had told Rebecca/Amanda/Michelle. Not as much hilarity ensued as had broken out the first time I told it, but it was a six out of ten.
Finally done, I staggered up to the main counter to settle my bill and I asked the woman there, “Have you got anybody else who would like to take a whack at me?” When she said she didn’t, I said, “Surely there are two or three more people who would like to have a go.” But there weren’t.
I’ve never claimed to be the smartest guy in my town but I have met a lot of my fellow citizens over my lifetime and I am pretty sure I am not the dumbest one either. Just a little slow on the uptake, now and then.
The other night, I looked out my kitchen window to see two of the three rabbits that inhabit our backyard, gathered around their feeding station. One of them, a touch on the smaller side, is the one that has befriended me over the winter. I don’t know if it’s possible to be sexist while discussing rabbits, but because my buddy is the smallest of the three, I think of it as female.
I am a creative writer of longstanding so, after much creative thought, I gave my furry little pal a unique name – Bunny. I think it suits her.
Bunny comes when I call her now, and one night, I bent down and held out the dish of food I was carrying. She came within two inches of my hand. Had I put some seed in my hand, I think she might have eaten out of it. Instead I reached out to pet her and she was off like a rocket.
It is so gratifying to see this wild little creature hopping around impatiently a couple of feet from me while I put down her feed and then dash in to eat almost before I can get out of the way.
So, I have become sort of protective of her. That is why I was shocked and upset while looking out the window to see Bunny and another rabbit engaging in what seemed to be a pretty nasty fight. First, they stood straight up on their hind legs and I was shocked at how tall they were. Then, back on all fours, they took turns hopping straight into the air and landing back in the same spot, all the time facing each other. Also something I had never seen.
And then, to my horror, the bigger rabbit jumped on poor Bunny’s back and I couldn’t stand any more. I ran outside to break things up but they were gone.
I was watching a nature show tonight.
I’m pretty sure Bunny’s gonna be a mommy this spring. I know she’ll be busy, but I hope she can still spare a little time for me.
And if her kids are as friendly as she is, I will be busy thinking up unique names for them like Jumpy, Hoppy, Leapy, Frank and Bunny Jr.
What is it about gun nuts that makes them so darned easy to make fun of?
An Oregon man openly carrying his brand new handgun was robbed of the firearm recently by another armed man. The 21-year-old victim, who had bought a semi-automatic .22-calibre handgun earlier in the day, was openly carrying the weapon down a street when another man approached him and asked for a cigarette.
The man who asked for a cigarette then pulled his own firearm from his waistband, pointed it at his fellow gun owner, and said, “I like your gun, give it to me,” according to police. The man then fled after the victim handed over his new purchase.
Bad guy with two guns, good guy with no gun. I am confused.
I wish I could, but I can’t even think of anything funny to add to this. Perfect irony writes its own endings, sometimes.
I suppose this might be the equivalent of being run over by the Welcome Wagon on your first day in a new town.
There is a big pothole at the end of our street. I have been struggling to deliver the best description I can of this pavement monster.
I am not sure how long it’s been there but there are stories in my neighbourhood about how buggy drivers always took care to steer their carriages around the hole lest their horses stumble in and break a leg.
In fact, while it has been impossible for me to get an exact count of all my neighbours, it seems I haven’t seen some of them since Spring came around. I am not saying any of them fell into the hole, but I am at a loss as to how to explain what seems to be a depopulation of some of the 44 houses on my block.
I guess, though I was putting this off, that you will want to know exactly how big this pothole is. I toyed with the idea of telling you it could swallow an elephant, were one to happen by, but I knew you’d think I was exaggerating and that won’t do. Real humour is based on truth, and so, I have to be realistic.
The pothole at the end of my street could swallow a baby elephant and to be more precise, a newborn baby elephant. There very well could be one in there right now but I am afraid to go look. If I saw one down there I would probably try to save it and would end up in the hole too.
The reason I refer to our pothole as a monster, aside from its size, is this. It is more than a hole. It’s a trap. It fills up with water and fools drivers and pedestrians into thinking it is just a rather large puddle.
We don’t get many visitors these days but we always caution the people who do drop by to take another route to get off our street.
Go to the other end, we say, and don’t be charmed by the cute baby elephants milling about at the other.
I needed to go to the grocery store this afternoon. I had been outside a couple of times earlier, and knew it was sunny, but a bit chilly. So I dressed appropriately.
On went my winter coat though I didn’t bother with a sweater underneath it. Just a heavy tee shirt. Lined winter cap, of course. When you’re bald, it can be a necessity on even the nicest day in July.
I thought about my winter boots, but as the snow was almost gone, decided to take a chance and put on my running shoes instead. My heavy woolen socks would protect me, I thought. Living dangerously, I left my winter gloves behind.
At the store, when I got out of the car, there was a strong breeze so I zipped up my coat and was glad for it. Threw up the hood over my cap and made my way to the entrance.
Once inside the big building, I realized the air conditioning was running and was happy to snuggle into my seasonally appropriate clothing. And the first person I (almost) ran into, was a young, twenty-something guy. And I immediately felt sorry for him. You would have too.
This poor fella had no coat on at all. With his full head of hair, he wore no cap. And shockingly, he had on only a thin tee shirt and, I almost fainted, a pair of shorts. Running shoes and NO SOCKS. I thought of lending him my coat, but didn’t want to interfere. Someday, I hope, he’ll realize how to dress himself on a normal Day 25 of March in Canada.
It was cold in the freezer section of the store as I searched for the eggs we needed. And when I got home, I lay myself down for a long, afternoon nap. I was cozy. Three nice blankets on the bed and the space heater going.
I finally drifted off. Still fretting about the Lord Godiva I had almost bumped into at the store.
I was thankful and felt sorry for him.
When I woke up, I cooked myself up a very warm bowl of soup. Grabbed my laptop and reading glasses and caught up on the news.
And I thought, another few months I’ll be walking around in shorts and tee-shirts like that young guy at the store. Maybe a light jacket. And straw hat. Running shoes. Thin pair of socks.
With age, it seems, comes wisdom. And no end of clothing. My mother would be proud of me. If I ever make it to a beach on a south seas island, I promise myself I will dress like Lord Godiva.
Checkout lines in retail stores are my little hell on earth but at least in that frustration, I am not alone. I have an uncanny knack for choosing the wrong line, again, nothing unique. But today’s little adventure in a big store in my small city stands out somewhat.
This store, which I otherwise love, is distinctive in that four of its six checkouts are just decoys, placed there to give the appearance of readiness in the event of a flood of shoppers. In fact, the flood occurs regularly but only two floodgates are open at any one time. So, at least the options for which line to choose are reduced.
Today, there was a long line at one checkout, a short one at the other. Which one would you choose? Exactly. But, like me, you would be horribly, tragically wrong. There was a reason the one line was long and the other short.
The smarter shoppers had figured it out. Those whose brains turn to putty in store lineups never do. And so, I entered the short line.
There was a young couple just finishing their checkout and only one other guy to go through. He had one item. One item. A bike rack for his truck. In a very large box but did I mention one item? A breeze, I chuckled triumphantly to myself as I looked with pity on the long row of shoppers in the next line.
However, as Bike Rack Bob approached the till, he lifted his right hand in which was clutched a four-inch wad of coupons. The average Bible is thinner than this, I thought.
I know those of us of Irish descent are inclined to exaggeration and I have acknowledged that a hundred thousand times, but this wad was actually four solid inches in thickness. Maybe even a touch thicker. The woman at the checkout freaked out.
“Oh no,” she said to the guy, who seemed to be a friend or neighbour. “You’re not going to do this to me. I am done my shift.” But he was not backing down and so the counting began.
To complicate matters, Bob turned out to be an incessant chatter and the poor woman had to start over several times as she lost track of where she was as she tried to digest story after story.
Other shoppers pulled in behind me, sized up the situation and left for the longer line which was flowing along like lava down a mountainside. But I was committed and I have found from past experience that if I leave the line I am in, something terrible will happen in the other line to make it even worse.
A woman pulled her cart in behind me and we joked a bit before she left for the long line. In a few minutes she gave me a royal wave and smile as she exited the building, her business complete. All the shoppers who had been in front of her, were likewise gone.
In total, the bike rack guy had produced $108 in play money, most of it in denominations of five and ten cents. All that money counted he still owed the clerk $5.11. Had he pulled out a little purse and ventured to settle his account with nickels and dimes, I’m afraid I would have been forced to assault him. As it was, he used a debit card and in a few more minutes was gone.
His only salvation was that he was abjectly apologetic. But every resident of the State of Texas apologizing for anything wouldn’t have speeded up my progress.
I hope Bob enjoys his bike rack for many years to come, years I would have also liked to have had but which are now most likely gone as a result of the stress placed upon my nerves and heart from having to stand in line behind him today.
And all for the sake of a box of cat litter and some toilet paper in my shopping cart. Ironically, I guess, a double case of bummer.
On the beef farm in Canada where I grew up, many hours were spent spreading manure, literally. I would jump on the tractor with the loader on front, and scoop out the cattle barns, load up the spreader, then climb on the tractor attached to it and take it to the fields.
The manure wagon had a chain conveyer on its floor which would slowly move the manure to the back of the spreader and into the speeding beaters which would shoot the stuff out onto the soil below. It was not a terrible job, but the manure that had been stored in the barnyard, had been rained on for weeks and could be very sloppy. It was not a laugh a minute spreading that stuff.
But eventually, I would get a drippy wagonful and head out to spread it. The smelly slop shot out everywhere from the beaters like fireworks. If it happened to be a windy day and I was heading in a poorly chosen direction, I could feel the manure splat on the back of my head. However, now and then I couldn’t resist taking a look behind me to see how things were coming along. When I did that, I would sometimes get a blast of slop hitting me in the face, and, if I made the mistake of looking back while I was singing a Roy Orbison song, I might actually get a rancid trajectory of cow poop in my mouth. I know I should keep looking straight ahead when it comes to many politicians these days, but now and then, I look back while I am singing a Gordon Lightfoot song and whammo – mouth filled once again with stuff that came out of a politician’s mouth.
