Everywhere Signs

Dear Crazy Person,
I noticed your sign.  Neatly printed with red marker.  You used all caps on the back of a piece of Rice Krispies cereal carton, which had been carefully cut so that Snap only had one eye. 


'PLEASE DON'T LEAVE BIRDSEED ON THE BENCH'


I have never been the sort to bring birdseed with me on my dog walks.  


Thanks for the great idea.

A Man of Many Parts

iPhones are powerful, portable tools connecting their users to the globe.  They can photograph, search, inform, communicate, entertain, and direct you to the closest Starbucks.  Husband would love to be doing all of these things but at this point he would settle for being able to hold his phone without having to cup his hands together to prevent all the little bits from falling through his fingers.

Those of you reading along at home will know that Husband recently purchased a new iPhone 4G ''Uber Phone" and that just as recently he proved the one thing an iPhone cannot do is survive skipping across a parking lot like a stone across a pond. The phone still functioned but the glass shattered, making the touch screen challenging to read.  Husband was disappointed but undaunted by this turn of events.  Any man who can reconfigure a fuel system for Beaver RX-550 aircraft can certainly replace a little broken glass.  Am I right?

The part arrived a week or so ago.  Husband spent all week reading tech support sites, prepping for surgery.  The valley has been scoured for a set of screwdrivers small enough to perform the procedure.  None could be found but that didn't worry Husband, who created one of his own, using two straight pins and a mini vice clamp.

The dogs and I moved the sofa to a safer vantage point across the street on the neighbour's yard and took up our usual station beneath it.  At one point the sounds of the helpful support video could be heard drifting from the kitchen window, "You should now see the component board. You will have to remove 3000 screws in sequence."

When several hours passed remarkably free of profanity the dogs and I began to wonder how things were going. Risking a glance over the back of the sofa, we didn't see any signs of smoke or carnage so we crept closer.  Husband was sitting at the kitchen table, calmly scooping what looked like the worlds smallest Meccano set into various bowls.

"The glass isn't the problem," he whispered hoarsely. "The LCD screen glued to the glass with industrial strength Freaky-Bond* is the problem.  I think I need to lay down."

Husband can SCUBA dive and once flew a Hercules aircraft for 5 minutes without killing anyone.  He can play Mozart and disassemble a $400 phone with a homemade screw driver and a video guide translated to English from Tibetan by a German interpreter.  The trick will be putting it back together with the new parts, including the LCD screen, now on order.

In the meantime, Husband is going to burn a PC in sacrifice to appease the gods of Microsoft who are clearly punishing him for his insolence.


* "Never comes off, no matter how hard you scream!"

Jesus would be a drummer if he weren't already a carpenter and, you know, Jesus

I don't play a musical instrument, unless you count that time I dropped the turkey pan down the back steps.  I have always secretly dreamed of being musically gifted, my vast talent laying dormant until just the right instrument presents itself to my waiting grasp.  I  harbor this dream because my singing is slightly less great than my musical ability or, as Husband lovingly puts it, "awful."  As for instruments I have ruled out, that list includes the flute, the penny whistle, guitar, kazoo, clarinet, piano, electric keyboard and the Moroccan Tamtam.  I had high hopes for the latter but the Universe, apparently, has a ferociously unfunny sense of irony.  


I had nearly given up but everything changed after Husband and I attended a concert on Friday night. The band (name-dropping alert) styled themselves 21 Guns and to put it lightly, they freakin' rocked.  Their show was a salute to Greenday and they nailed it, let me just tell you. Great energy and the singing was top notch.  Husband started singing along from the very first song and when they trotted out the electric leaf blower/toilet paper cannon I think I actually heard him squeal like a little girl.  


These guys were fantastic, they gave the 50 odd folks huddled in the centre of a theatre smelling strongly of litter box and run by a coven of old lady seat Nazis, a show worthy of a fairground filled with screaming college students.  The energy level didn't drop for one second and I dare say we all left feeling as though we had just spent 2 and half hours with Billy Joe Armstrong's biggest fans.


I'm taking an awfully long time to reach my point but I had to gush a little bit, that's how much fun the concert was.  And I am now unrestrainedly in love with drums.  It's the hitting stuff part that I like so much.  Also, the fact that I only need to be able to count to four is a big plus since I'm not that great with the numbers and the math and such.  We don't need to discuss the fact that I have the natural rhythm of a bag of rocks or that I can't pat my head and rub my tummy at the same time.  I also will not tolerate any discussion of 'the incident with the Tamtam' again.  Ever.  But after watching the drummer gently smiling like Buddha seated beneath the Sacred Fig, all the while smashing the crap out of everything around him for hours, I have to say, I want to give that a try.


Husband thinks this is a great idea, as long as I promise not to sing while I do it.

And the month is only half over...

The most random people I have met this June, in no particular order are:

1.  The nurse lady Husband plucked from a cruise ship along with her patient.  She is a retired elementary school principal from Illinois who was on week one of her first two week assignment as a nurse on the S.S 'God's Waiting Room' when she got stranded in downtown Comox.  She owns a monkey and thinks maybe nursing isn't for her. 

2.  A seven year old boy who knows everything there is to know about cows including how to breed them, raise them, sell them and serve them with BBq sauce.  He was not pleased by the lack of cows on Vancouver Island and hopes his family moves back to a 'real province' soon.

3.  Huresh the telemarketer who was selling cable bundles and who called while I was stuck for a word.  He helped me out ('heuristic') and we chatted about surfing and the weather on the West coast v.s. the East.  He is working his way through university to become a kinesiologist.  I didn't buy cable.  He was okay with that.

4.  The Flute Guy, who I have seen about town for the past few months but have never spoken to.  The other day he wandered in to the front lobby of the building in which I work and asked for a cup of coffee and directions to the closest washroom.  He carries a flute but only plays on sunny days and likes his coffee triple sweet.  

My favourite part of any day is always the story I come home with.  These folks were kind enough to share part of theirs with me.  

Green Acres

Husband can flip pancakes in the air and play music by ear.  He can drive a fork lift and run a marathon.  He can even make a decent cup of tea.  So it should have come as no surprise  to me when he woke this morning and declared that on Saturday we would be putting in a garden and growing our own vegetables this year.

"Nothing too big," he promised.  "I'm thinking just potatoes, peas, carrots, lettuce, beans, tomatoes, corn, broccoli, pumpkins, squash, kale, spinach, beets, onions, garlic, sweet potatoes, leeks, asparagus, peppers, turnips, watermelons, zucchini, Brussels sprouts and cucumbers.  Just a small garden, really."

I should point out that for Husband the use of the word small in that sentence is not the least bit ironic. After all, he left out soy.

I confess, though, I am excited about this endeavour.  I have witnessed first hand what can happen when Husband decides to do something his way.  Clothes don't fit his length?  Now he makes his own skydive gear.  Ultra light too drafty?  Now it has a fully enclosed cabin. Closet door squeaks?  Now there's a giant gaping hole where the door used to be, but the squeak is 100% gone.

One of my favourite things about Husband is his child-like enthusiasm for his projects.  I know he has spent hours on the Internet searching out tips and schematics and optimal soil conditions.  Yesterday I saw him Googling "Poop+Ultra+Fast+Fertilizer+Monsanto+Radioactive". I am certain he has been laying awake at night picturing himself standing on a giant pile of food at harvest time, proudly wearing  muddy overalls and a huge grin.

What is this girl to do?  Dig, of course.  Dig, water, weed, prune and do it all again the next day.  Would you want to disappoint someone that wonderful? Or, at least, someone who apparently plans on growing nuclear beets?

Spy v. Spy

There is a battle being fought, right here under my roof.  A battle in which the lines between good and evil are blurred and the struggle for ultimate power shakes my home to it's very foundation.


My cat really hates my rotti-dog that much.


Fritti is a creature of serenity and grace.  Each ear flicker is a meditation upon whiskered perfection.  There is never a hair out place on her marmalade form.  The white star on her forehead is a physical manifestation of her other-worldly thoughts as she drinks in sunlight and stares, peacefully, out at the streets she owns simply by gazing upon them.


Jesse is 100 pounds of moron.  


Fritti has harbored a hateful grudge against her since the moment the dog stepped into our home and has successfully endeavored to make a creature 10 times her size afraid to even glance in her direction when she enters the room.  I have watched as my rotti-dog has stepped into a sunbeam occupied by Fritti and settled for a nap in the farthest corner of the ray.  Minutes later Fritti will stride over to her nose and proceed to beat merry hell upon it while Jesse skates for purchase on the hardwood, trying to flee.  Jesse, blessed with the heart of a lamb and the brain of a goldfish, will repeat this two or three times in an afternoon and each time will come to us for comfort as Fritti gazes disdainfully at her with narrowed eyes from across the room.  We think Fritti thinks Jesse is simply too big, slobbery and needy to be tolerated.


Our best guess is that Jesse thinks Fritti is made of sugar coated dog treats since in two years Jesse has still not learned to leave the cat alone.


This war wages when we are asleep, evidenced by debris on the floor come the dawn.  The battles are fought over pillows, sofa cushions, laps, who gets to nap on Husband, and the water bowl.  I don't know who is winning but this morning Jesse scored a few points by using one of the Yellow Dog's tricks:  sneaking up behind Fritti while she is drinking and sneezing.  Nothing is faster, madder or funnier than a wet cat trying to chase a rotti through puddles on the kitchen floor.


I am not saying I am rooting for one side over the other, that isn't the way a pet owner's heart works.  But I have to hand to Jesse; what she lacks in brains, ingenuity, cunning, stealth, maneuverability, speed, guile, strategy and basic memory skills she makes up for in enthusiasm.


She's going to need it.

They had me at free cheese

I think it's safe to say I have the soul of a hippie.  I like farmer's markets and multi-grain toast.  I carry a reusable travel mug and I am a responsible recycler, although Husband will argue that I am better at filling the recycling bins than actually walking them to the curb. It has therefore been easy to maintain a disdainful distance from the new Costco that has sprouted up in town.  I am smug in the knowledge that I don't desperately need to purchase pickles in bulk.

That was yesterday.

A friend called and offered to take me with her for opening weekend.  Thinking to stroll through the commercial debauch with the haughty air of someone who hasn't bought plastic wrap or paper towels in 5 years, I agreed to go if only to fuel the burning fire which is this blog.

A 25 minute wait at the registration desk earned us the right grab a shopping cart the size of a minibus and wait in another line to have our membership verified before we could enter the cavernous expanse beyond.  Already mentally writing about the irritation of waiting and the shameless bigness of it all, I walked through the doors wearing the poorly hidden sneer of someone who reads David Suzuki everyday.  Harrumph.

Blinking in the lights and ears pulsing from the throb of voices, I stumbled forward and nearly knocked over a tower of blenders the sole purpose of which was to make the perfect margarita.  These were stacked next to the sexiest red and chrome Kitchen Aid blenders in the universe.  Beside a big screen television that made Oprah's pores look like craters on the moon. Under an 8-person party barge river floatie suspended from the ceiling that promises to turn this summer's tubing season into a religious experience.

And they were giving away cheese. For free. On this island, where a 500g brick of Cracker Barrel can only be purchased with tears from a unicorn or the promise of your first born, the notion of free cheese left me reeling in shock.  It didn't stop me from stuffing my cheeks but I did it reeling, I tell you.

I was nearly giddy as I skipped through aisles stuffed with stuff.  The Code of The Hippie Way forgotten, I searched for the perfect thing that would forever be That Which Was The First Costco Purchase.  Remembering that Husband loved the huge double chocolate cake-muffins, so greasy the cardboard they were encased in was see-through, I thought yes, for Husband's muffins, I was willing to sell my soul and open the flood gates to the Cult of More.

Until the check out line.

"What do you mean I have to buy a dozen? They come in packages of 6.  I will happily give you this handful of money and unicorn tears in exchange for this package of 6 poorly baked, unhealthy muffins which are really just sugar and fat."

*honking noises muffled by commercial slogans and the sound of weeping manatees*

"Seriously? You won't take my money? Well. Then you may take this package of crappy, pre-baked trans-fat, shipped here in a freight truck from thousands of miles away, the fumes of which have softened the shells of baby penguins for an entire generation, and walk it all the way back across this huge box store, smug in the in knowledge that you have protected the integrity of this soul-less wasteland of a corporation. I hope you get blisters."

It's not stalking if you pay first

It's the season of the summer blockbuster and I am raring to go.  I am a Movie Fan.  Husband will clarify and tell you that I am a fan of horribly under budget, poorly written 'crap-ass schlock' but that's opening a door best left nailed shut.  I love movies and I love movie theatres.  I have a special fondness for the theatre right here in town.  True, the Rialto may have seen better days; it's carpets are no longer plush, the seats sag, and the smell of butter and orange nacho goo have long-since combined into a strange aroma one can only describe as 'penetrating' but to me it is everything a theatre should be: intimate, dark and slightly sticky.

I love the whole experience.  I love standing in line for the tickets, even in the rain.  I love watery fountain soda with too much ice and dim lighting that tricks you into believing your matinee is at midnight. I love the sounds of children begging for change to play the arcade games that beep and rumble seductively from the shadows on the edge of the lobby. I even love paying too much for Peanut M&M's.  

I confess I am not picky about what movie I see. From Oscar winning mega-hits to films that may only spend one night in the theatre before the producers are found and shot, I will be found centre aisle, popcorn in hand.  I enjoy them all, but my favourites are the ones featuring explosions, weird science, aliens, monsters, explosions, pirates, magic, big men in little skirts, explosions and Jason Statham.  If Jason Statham could play Quidditch while sword-fighting a Kraken that fires exploding alien vampires from it's mouth I would die of      awesome.

I argue that sitting shoulder to shoulder in a darkened theatre while lights flicker and the story unfolds is a very primal experience; a modern day gathering around the campfire at the mouth of the cave.  We huddle together to push back the black edges of the night and gaze for a moment at stars we believe can transport us to worlds where the punchlines are always perfectly timed, where the good guys always win and where Jason Statham rides a unicorn while fighting crime with Batman and Inigo Montoya.