No more ‘Shotgun’, no more ‘Seinfeld’, no more ‘Triviana’ (at least for a while), I have a new title to list my stream of confused consciousness posts. This one will be:
This is my 600th post! No big deal, I just wanted you to know that I’ve (almost) got over my paranoia about where the next blog-theme is coming from.
I finally seem to have got both my mind and my publishing schedule straightened out – three posts a week, Monday, Wednesday and Friday. In January, despite it having 31 days, I only published 11 times. In February, despite it having only 29 days, I assaulted your optic nerves with 13 posts.
On March 26/16, I rolled out of bed at the crack of noon, stumbled downstairs wearing socks, YSL briefs and my usual befuddled look. As I was feeding and watering various animals, four-legged and two- legged, there was a discreet knock on my door. Expecting the neighbor lady, I cracked it open and remained behind it.
I was confronted by a young female who was working with a group to organise a ‘Polar Bear Plunge’. I’m 72, and have to wear socks to bed to keep warm. They’re going door to door for an April event?? Wha’ happen to a New Years bath?
I am on a National Do-Not-Call List, yet still get numerous phone calls from Pakistan where they can’t read Canadian law. Recently, the son added another way to fu….foul them up.
“Hello, could I please speak to the owner of the house?”
“No! I’m sorry, he’s in jail right now.”
“Uh…. then who is speaking please?”
“I’m a bail-bondsman, doing an assessment so that we can repossess this place.”
When we bought this house, 15 years ago, it was owned as a place-holder, by a young newly-wed couple. They were having a house built in the next city, where he hoped to get on with the fire department. Three years later, as the son was driving to work over there, he hit a patch of black ice, and got tee-boned. His first words when he called to tell us, were, “The airbags work.”
A young fireman climbed into the back seat to support his neck (just in case) and also to provide emotional support. “Where ya from?” “Kitchener.” “Yeah, I lived in Kitchener for a while.” And the little light went on. “Is your name Carl? Is your wife’s name Cindy? Did you used to live at xx XXXX Crescent?” Who are you, and how have you been reading my mail? “Yeah, we bought your house. So, you made it into the Fire Department? Thanks for coming out.”
I have to walk a block to pick up my mail at a community mailbox. We are getting to know Mr. Amazon really well – books, Keurig coffee pods, Puffs tissues with lotion, which don’t seem to be available in stores anymore. Sometimes, with the mail, is a key to a larger, parcel box. I remove the package and drop the key back in the mail slot.
I recently found a key, even though I wasn’t aware of anyone expecting anything. When I got home, I read the label, to know which co-conspirator to give it to, and found a sample pack of Similac baby food, addressed to Cindy. Fifteen years we’ve been here. She’s still havin’ kids, and giving out the same old, wrong address??!
I aided my computerless brother in getting tickets and lodging for The Brier, Canada’s big curling finale, in Ottawa. He took along his friend Norm, to split on gasoline and hotel expenses, thereby saving $625 over a nine-day stay. When he called me with the details, he vowed that, if he ever goes again, he’ll do it solo, or find another partner.
I’ve written of Norm before. He’s a great believer in the ’24 hours in a day – 24 beers in a case’ credo. My father said he’d never seen Norm without a beer in his hand – never drunk….but never sober.
One day, Norm insisted that they cross the river into Quebec, to get some cheap beer. Beer in Ontario is $40.99/24case, or $1.71 each. In Gatineau they put them 4 by 5 on a cardboard tray, stack three trays high, shrink-wrap 60 beers to a cube, and sell them for $61. Add a bit of tax, and a 5 cent/can deposit that he’ll never get back, and each 55 pound lot cost him $73.00, or $1.21 each.
He bought 8 bundles, spending $584 to save $240 on 480 cans, or almost 500 pounds of beer, enough to last him a month or so. They almost took the wheels off the hotel’s luggage cart when they moved it into their room. Now the brother knows why he insisted on driving his new Ford F-150.