I Get The Picture

SDC10464

About the middle of August, we got two violent windstorms within a week.  Not hurricane   quality like KayJai received, but nasty.  The second, especially, had downdraft winds which snapped branches and trees in LadyRyl’s neighborhood.  These shots are of a 100-year-old willow, beside the creek, in front of her complex.

SDC10465                                       SDC10466

A couple of blocks away, this big maple beside the road was snapped off about 8 feet up.  After cutting it up for giveaway firewood, the artistic homeowner turned the remains into an eagle.

SDC10462 SDC10461 SDC10463 SDC10460

SDC10467

When I went to pick up Granma LadyBug, after her nose surgery, I spotted this sign….Pick her up??  Or have a beer and pizza??  I’d like to claim that I did the honorable thing, but the truth is, I’m too broke to be naughty.

 SDC10470

LadyRyl took a couple of shots of the knapped agate knife she bought at the pow-wow.  Not SDC10469much difference, but one is the front, and the other, of course, is the back.

SDC10474

At the same pow-wow, the grandson bought a cool smudge fan to be used to move sage-smoke, or incense around – no hemp!  Can’t even spell hemp!

The only Segway owner/rider in the Region, and possibly all of Southern Ontario, apparently lives near enough that he shops at EuroFood, my favorite little deli.  Since he was only going to be inside “for just a couple of minutes”, he left the key in it.  If a Segway key is like the key for the daughter’s power wheelchair, it’s only a stereo-cord plug.  You could ride away with it while listening to music on your headphones.

Didn’t matter!  Apparently two teenage boys just lifted it up and carried it off.  Two words, fool – Bike! Lock!  I was going to scan in the newspaper picture of him in his gay little bicycle helmet, but if you want a photo of a clueless guy looking lost, my gravatar is still available.  He’s 62, and the old-boy genius liked to ride around on his Segway with a clown nose, or Oktoberfest lederhosen, with a bright feather in his helmet.  I don’t want to picture either of those. Ew, ew, ew!

U.S. Senator Ted Cruz, from Texas, is probably more responsible than any other individual for the government shutdown.  He recently stood and spoke about nothing for 22 hours, (Sorry for the redundancy.) trying to prevent the passage of Obama’s Health Care bill.  Sarah Palin says she supports him.  She’s always liked him since he was in the movie Top Gun.

He’s a member of a political party which has been bitching for years, that Barack shouldn’t be president, because he wasn’t born in the U.S., and now he wants to run for president himself, in 2016.  The biggest problem with that, is that he is a poutine-eating, Maple syrup-sucking Canadian!  Sshh, don’t tell him.  While his mother was a US citizen, his father was from Cuba, and he was born in a hospital in Calgary, while his dad worked in the (Canadian) oil industry.

While the US government may consider him a citizen, his birth certificate makes him a Canadian.  He has thundered to the press that he will renounce his Canadian-ness, and claims, “I’m an American by birth.”  So sad, dad!  Tough luck Chuck!  The boundaries of his egotistical imagination do not match up with reality.

At least Barack eventually provided an American birth certificate.  After this little revelation, I can’t picture him even being allowed to run for president.  I would like a picture of his face when he finds out that, for all his ugly-American jingoism, the rules include him out.

Did you like our pictures?  We’re practicing for some upcoming posts with photos in them.  Kittens anyone??    😀

Triviana T’ree

Please keep hands and feet inside the blog.  Do not attempt to exit until the post has come to a complete stop.  The following are a few thoughts which whirl through my head, there not being much between my ears to slow them down.

I was at a supermarket with the wife today.  At the end of one row, there was a plastic box with a sign saying “Seasonal Recipes, Try One.”  I took one of the sheets, and, sure enough, there was a great recipe for Barbecued Snow, another for Sweet and Sour Snowballs, and instructions for Baked Icicles, promising that they’ll come out soft and juicy.  For anyone needing basic ingredients, we’ll be happy to ship them to you.  I have a distribution system stretching from KayJai, in the east, to NotesToPonder in the west.

We had a couple of severe wind storms come through the Region recently.  Several trees in LadyRyl’s compound, and others in the neighborhood, lost large branches, or were toppled.  City and private crews have been cleaning up.  Smaller limbs go through a chipper, and larger stuff is cut and piled.  Free mulch and firewood!  All you can haul away.  One tree, about a block from Ryl’s, left a stump beside the road, almost three feet across, and six feet high.  Slowly but surely, someone has been turning it into the bottom of a Totem pole, a most handsome-looking Eagle.  I’ll grab a photo, and add to a post later.

In an ongoing contest to prove which one of us is dumber, I asked MapQuest.CA to find me a place near SightNBytes, in Newfoundland, Canada.  I was presented with Newfoundland, Tenn., U.S. bloody A!  It’s about three miles down the road from a maximum-security Federal prison.  “Do not stop!  Do not pick up hitchhikers!”

I’ve written about being (almost) smarter than the old, wooden, two-legged clothes pins.  I met their Mensa relatives recently.  Made from the heavy, recycled plastic that is used to produce some patio/lawn furniture, these things are claimed indestructible, and cheap at 39 cents each.  I guess everything old is new again, as more women (and men?) hang laundry on clotheslines.

Did you drink cherry Coke when you were younger??  Does anybody besides me still drink it?  My favorite fire-water is actually Pepsi, but, it’s like “Kleenex.”  It’s all Kleenex unless someone specifies otherwise.

I was introduced to cherry-cola at about the age of 15, back when restaurants had soda-fountains.  You could pay a little extra for a shot of the cherry soda syrup in your “glass” glass of draft (draught, for Canadians, especially KayJai) cola.  For at least 20 years, as supermarket choices expanded, I’ve been buying bottles of cherry syrup, and adding it to many of my glasses of Pepsi.

Coke sells Cherry-Coke in cans.  I’m not sure that Pepsi does.  Pepsi does sell cans with a touch of lime, that son, Shimoniac, likes occasionally.  Partly to control my weight, I often don’t want 12 ounces, and custom-mix a small glass, from a 2-liter bottle.

A little over a year ago, BrainRants mentioned Sriracha sauce on his blog.  I’d never seen or heard of it.  Less than a month later it showed up at my supermarket.  At first, it was expensive, and rare, $6.99 a bottle – liters – to satisfy Canadian packing requirements.  Soon, most stores carried it, and the price went down.

Suddenly, it was as common as water, and less expensive.  My store had a giant, end-of-aisle display, hundreds (perhaps thousands) of bottles in an 8-foot-high pile, clearing at 99 ¢/ea.  I first saw a small store in Charleston, SC, which sold nothing but a wide range of hot sauces.  We recently got the first in our area, at the Farmers’ Market.  The wife treated me to an order of poutine today.  (All questions about What The Hell Is Poutine??! faithfully answered)  I drizzled some Sriracha on it.

I went to put in the ¢ sign above, and realized that electronic keyboards no longer have them.  They have the dollar sign, but not the cents.  This happened long before Canada decided to eliminate the penny.  The wife threatened offered to teach me how to add it to my text, but I feared it would be cheaper and easier just to hire a performance artist to go to each of your houses and put it in.  Silly me, it’s not hard at all.  Two different ways, press alt 0162, or control, slash, c.  Now I gotta write more about cents.

In my continuing acquisition of interesting names, I met a knife-maker at the Detroit show named Bobby L. Toole, not O’Toole, merely Toole.  I haven’t researched just how rare the name is, but I’ve never heard or read of another.  While the name may be white-bread, Irish, the holder definitely isn’t.  Being politically correct, I will not mention the joke about him being a Masai-man, so black you could melt him down to make hockey pucks from.

Another maker with a name almost as handsome as his knives, was Doun T. Rose II, whose father had as much ego and as little imagination as Efrem Zimbalist Senior.  I gotta kick my standard transmissioned research up into second gear, to find out about him and Bobby.  He claimed that Doun is a Scottish name, and it’s always interesting to see what my skirt-wearing ancestors were up to.  You know why Scotsmen wear kilts??!  So the sheep don’t hear the zipper.

I put this post together Saturday, August 24th.  I don’t mind (much) that they’re playing football.  I’m not surprised to get back
from Canadian Tire, where Halloween costumes are available for sale, but Saturday’s paper had the first picture of someone playing hockey.  Summer, oh Summer, where hast thou gone?  Probably hiding behind my snow shovel, bah, humbug!

Classy Manners

While I’m all for respectful social comportment, “good manners” is often like “good Christians”, just another way for those at the top of the pile to enforce their version of acceptable behavior on those subordinate to them.  Often, the reason for certain behavior is lost or changed, but the demand for ritual continues.  Kitchen forks and knives came into existence to reduce the slashings and stabbings with daggers at Renaissance banquets.

Much of good manners is either the rich trying to get the poor to imitate them, or the poor trying to pretend they are not poor.  Everything is relative.  The, a plate for this food and a glass for that wine, means nothing to a kid from Kenya who is lucky to have an old tin can or half a gourd to hold a little food.  When first married, my father always left a little something on his plate, and it disturbed my Scottish mother.  When asked about it, he said that an aunt had told him that it showed you were well-off enough to waste a bit.  Mom soon cured him of that.

Don’t pick up food with your hands, because we can afford cutlery.  Don’t lick your plate or bowl, because we can pay for more food.  The only one that makes sense is the, don’t lick your knife, admonishment.  You might cut your tongue.  You can be sure that the Kenyan kid is licking his food holder.

When it comes to manners, much is expected of us, simply because it is expected.  England, supposedly the home of freedom and democracy, even today, is rigidly stratified by wealth and region.  The lower the position on the social totem pole – assigned by those at the top – the more one is expected to know your place, and act your role.  In one of Agatha Christie’s mysteries, two murderers are caught for an otherwise perfect murder, because they didn’t speak to the housekeeper.  Why didn’t they ask Evans?

In a perfect world, no-one would be disturbed by anything, but the world is far from perfect, and some people’s expectations and turn-offs are somewhat excessive.  I once bathed, immediately before going to work.  I put on clean clothes, from the skin out, including a brand-new pair of socks.

After working 8 hours I had to remove a shoe and sock in the locker-room.  Even I was shocked to see the foot was completely black.  Some bitchy wimp asked, “Don’t you ever shower?” After I explained that I seldom shower, I assured him that I had just had a nice long bath.  The black on my foot was just fiber from the new socks.  “Yeah, well, it’s still gross!”  What do you answer to that?  It’s not my problem.  It’s his!

Go Transit, the commuter railroad in southern Ontario, has instituted *quiet zones*, cars where there are no loud talkers, no cell-phones, and no music leaking from earphones on empty heads.  A Toronto Sun columnist wants to transfer that to the streetcars and subways of the Toronto Transit Commission, and adds his list of dislikes.  Here’s why I don’t think he has a chance.

He rails against coughers, spreading germs.  He wants them to cover their mouth, and wonders why they don’t just stay home.

You’re sitting down, while I have one hand full of strap, and the other with a tote-bag with my Joe-Job uniform.  It doesn’t leave many free limbs to suppress coughs.  I’m going to work, with my cold, because I have a shitty job, with shitty pay, and a shitty boss.  I need the income, and I need the job!  I’m gonna keep ridin’ the bus, till the day after they embalm me.  You could peel off $300 and say, “Here, take a couple of days off.  What’s your boss’s name and address?  I’ll tell him what a stand-up guy you are and slip him a C-note to pay for a temp, and to hold your job.”  Until you do, Shut Up!

Sniffers, just bring a Kleenex, or a simple handkerchief to clear the nasal passages, so I don’t have to listen.

Plug in your earphones, because I suffer from hyperhidrosis.  I am constantly producing saliva and nasal fluid.  It’s a steady post-nasal drip.  I could blow my nose with aloe flavored tissues till I sand it off, and it would still drip down my throat.  You think it’s irritating on the outside for a half-hour ride; you should try living with it on the inside, 24/7!

Watching somebody spend 30 minutes putting on makeup is just off-putting.  Organize your morning ablutions.

Gee, Bob, why don’t you close your eyes and doze off.  I’d like to.  I’m a working Mom, and I’ve been up since 5:30 AM.  I woke a husband and two kids, made sure they all got washed and dressed while I made them breakfast and lunches.  I got Hubby off to work, and the kids delivered to daycare, and now I have to endure the ride-from-Hell, to work.  I finally have a free minute to call my own, and you don’t like it?  If you don’t want to see me apply my makeup, why don’t you get up a half hour earlier, and take a different train?

He did have an insightful comment about seat-baggers, but it just proves what sheep most people are.  Who knew that bags and parcels get tired?  That must be the reason some people feel the need to sit on one seat and take another for their carry-ons.  It is both rude and selfish.

When I took the bus home from a day-shift, I rode the same one that the Good-Christian, Catholic School students took.  Since my stop was almost the last, on the outbound run, I tried to sit on the raised section behind the back door, to give others room.  That’s where the students always rode, too.  Some of the loving couples must have felt a bus seat was less expensive than a motel room, but provided an entertaining, in-flight movie.

I stepped up there one day, and there was only one seat open (?).  It had José the Jock’s school-books in it.  I looked at him, and then at the seat.  He looked at me, and then looked away, dismissively.  I walked over, picked up the pile of books, dropped them in his lap and sat down, with my carry-bag on my lap.  My working ass is more tired than your books.  There are places where these actions might be more dangerous, but the look on his face was priceless.  Somebody gotta teach ‘em some manners.