Tag Archives: humor

THAT MIDDLE FINGER

humour, thoughts and observations, , , , ,

I think my childhood may have been a tad lacking in some things but it was my Big Brother and my Best Friend who set me straight. Maybe my parents wouldn’t have agreed but how else was I to know about that middle finger?

I remembered the first time I saw it. I was learning to drive. Dad was my teacher. I actually got out of the mall parking lot and on the road in our ’64 Corvair. Needless to say, I was thrilled beyond words . Dad gained 20 white hairs and kept reminding himself I was the last off-spring to learn to drive and he could finally retire. At least, that’s what he always told us years later.

We were driving down this quiet residential street and Dad kept up a running commentary of “Stop sign coming, remember to stop” or “School zone, slow down” all the while his foot was tapping invisible brakes on his side.

I stopped, checked left, checked right and proceeded across. Immediately a raucous blare of someone’s horn jarred my concentration and a noisy Volks passed me with a finger sticking out, the middle finger.

Dad said, “Ignore that jerk. He had no right to pass as you were doing good. Make sure your door is locked.”

I thought back. What exactly did I do wrong? What did that finger mean? It clearly wasn’t friendly.

I showed my Big Brother when I got home and asked him what it meant.

“Don’t ever, ever do that finger thing to anyone and especially not in a car unless the windows are rolled up, the doors are locked and you drive away fast. It’s not a good thing to do unless you’re prepared to run.”

“But what does it mean?” I bugged him.

“It means bad things and even if you’re really angry, don’t do that middle finger thing. People–especially the wrong kind of people–find it insulting and fight-worthy.”

Big Brother explained it the best he could. I got the impression that males can do it ’cause they know how to fight and probably spoiling for a good fight. On the other hand, females aren’t supposed to be spoiling for any fight, so they’re not supposed to know this finger thing to get into trouble.

That was the explanation I got when I was sixteen.

I’m much older now. And I have arthritis in both hands. But it’s worse in my right hand. It affects my fingers, especially the middle finger that doesn’t fold down–it sticks up. The honest truth. I can’t make a decent fist without giving the finger.

“Why on earth would you want to make a fist?” asked my Best Friend.

“Well, you know–blood tests and stuff, they always ask you to make a fist.”

“Which hand is making the finger?” queried my BF.

“My right.”

“Well for Pete’s sake, it’s the left hand that would make any gesture out the driver’s window and all those fingers are good, right?”

“Yep.”

“Then stay away from using the right hand and it’s middle finger and you’ll be fine. Jeez for a minute there, you had me worried you got mixed up in the wrong crowd!”

“Do you realize that in my entire life so far, I’ve never used that middle finger wave and I’ve only seen it 3 times?”

“First of all, don’t ever wave that finger. Secondly, stay away from people who do. And thirdly, if you ever have to, make sure your windows are rolled up, the doors are locked and you drive away fast, ” my BF advised.

I forgot to ask how do you do the gesture if the windows are rolled up? Anyway, I’ve never had to give the unfriendly wave, so I guess I’m safe.

Your Worst Nightmare

Uncategorized, , , , , , ,

Does anyone else suffer through the ecxcruciating pain of navigating the convoluted maze of getting a real human to solve a telecommunication problem?

In my neck of the woods, I thought I discovered the painless method to bypass the lengthy wait on the phone to solve a problem with the phone bill. My secret shortcut was the online “chat” room with a human agent.

It used to be so quick. No queues. No one else in line. Now, I get a Robot.

Robot: Hello. How may I help you today?

Me: I’d like a real live person please.

Robot: I can help you.

Me: I’d like a real live person, please.

Robot: Do you mean an Agent?

Me: Yes.

Robot: I can help.

Me: No, I need an Agent.

Robot: Is it in regards to phone, TV or other technical problems?

Me: An Agent for Account Management.

Robot: I can direct you to an Agent regarding phone, TV or other technical problems.

Me: An Agent.

Robot: Would that be “Chat Online” or “Return Phone call?”

Me: Chat

Robot: One moment please. I will transfer you to an Agent. You are now 24th in the queue.

By the time I was connected to an Agent, I liked to think I was helping a trainee in dealing with human relation problems online. He/She felt good at helping me and I felt good offering training experience.

Not all the agents were trainees, but most seem to use that useful catchall phrase, “Let me consult with my colleague about this unique problem. ” As if my bill with the incorrect balance of a couple of extra zeroes was most unusual. To me, my bill made perfect sense in the hands of a vengeful robot who resented my request for a re al live Agent each time I called.

To be honest, there wouldn’t be any problems if my Hubby hadn’t called “Technical Assistance” for help in adding a second email address for himself. It seemed such a simple request except that trainee managed to remove the entire email program and decided to call it a day, leaving his colleague to fix the problem tomorrow.

After that nightmare was resolved the next morning, Hubby and I agreed that technology sucked big-time. However, the nightmare persisted in that our corrected online phone bill arrived under Hubby’s new email which he quickly forwarded to mine. Unfortunately I could no longer access the billing statement as it was now under Hubby’s new email and passcode.

So, that’s why I’m dealing with that vengeful robot again and waiting for a real human. . . again.

DASHING INTO 2025

Uncategorized, , , ,

As usual, I can’t believe we are at the mid-January mark. Where did the first two weeks of a brand new year go?

A few days ago, I decided to see if Spring was very far away. The first thing I saw were clusters of snowdrops carpeting the bare ground. To me, Spring had definitely arrived early.

Most Christmas decorations had been removed from houses, buildings, the Village businesses and lamp-posts. But there was one that was just too cute to pack away quickly. I almost missed the cute Holiday Llama. . . .tucked behind some firs and shrubs . . .

Art and Literature seemed to abound on my walk. I love when this happens because each is so unexpected when you’re not looking for it.

The above pieces of glass sculpture were displayed in the Avenue Gallery front window. Often the Gallery would display a large painting to complement the sculptures and this was another successful pairing. Unfortunately, I showed only a corner of the beautiful painting.

But when is art considered graffiti? AND when is graffiti considered art? Abandoned buildings are often canvases for artistic graffiti if there is such a thing. The two pieces of “art” below were painted on two abandoned doors that were part of a derelict building. These were taken a year ago as the doors are no longer there today.

One more photo–Is this considered graffiti (it was painted on the side of a skateboard ramp). . .or is it artisitic graffiti?

The quote below was on the display window of The Village’s bookstore. I thought Neil Gaiman must be a very wise man to write these words.

“I hope that in the year to come, you make mistakes. Because if you are making mistakes, then you are learning new things–learning, living, pushing. You are changing your world. You’re doing things never done before and more importantly, you’re doing something.” ( by Neil Gaiman on Ivy’s Bookstore window)

The contents of the Village Bulletin Board yield an unexpected piece of literature. Tacked atop the ad for piano lessons was a poignant break-up letter of regrets and good-bye.

I often wondered if this very public letter ever reached the person it was intended for—as the letter mysteriously disappeared 3 days later.

My homeward bound route was through Bowker Creek Park. The Creek had been undergoing a serious redevelopment of preserving the natural habitat for the ducks. The vegetation and natural plants were carefully cultivated and protected. That day, the ducks were out in full numbers with a lot of “Donalds” looking for their forever “Daisies.”

Single, happy and full of confidence, still searching for his perfect “Daisy.”

Oops! Lots of bachelors and is that an unimpressed “Daisy”?

Don’t worry, fellas. . .Valentine’s coming

Swinging through a side street, I found an unexpected piece of garden art. I really believe if a person looks. . .really look. . .art does pop out and grab your eyeballs. . . .

Then I came across a surprising sculpture at the bottom of the entrance to St. Mary’s Anglican Church.

And then took a closer look at the white tag. . . .guess this is called useful art!

I couldn’t resist adding one final piece of art—-the sandals and sneakers were covering a whole section of fence. AND was a traffic stopper at the major intersection.

I’m not sure why the theme was “shoes” but it reminded me how very diverse and clever and creative, we all can be. We come from different cultural roots with different influences and yet we are all similar. We are adaptable and survivors.

Life isn’t about waiting for the thunder and lightning to pass; it’s about waiting for the doughnuts to finish baking and to keep dancing in the noisy storm. . . .

JULY BRINGS SUNSHINE, ROSES AND . . . .

Uncategorized, , , , , , ,

Morning walks seems destine to be early ones, if only to beat the hot temperatures that goes from 70 degrees Fahrenheit to a hotter 85 degrees Fahrenheit in a mere few hours.

Choosing my favorite walking routes of random back lanes and connectors, I noticed this amusing scene in someone’s backyard. I called it “The March of the Pink Flamingoes. . . .I wonder where they’re going? . . . . . .

Other people’s gardens are fun to see as often there are whimsical touches that are quite unexpected.

Like this unusual and whimsical wind-spinner. I think I’m on a path of flamingoes. . . . .

I love roses and this appears to be the month for them. The scents are quite amazing, especially when carried on a gentle breeze.

There’s something beautiful seeing these pink roses poking through the worn fence. I wished I could paint them but will have to be content with a photo.

Continuing my walk through the back lanes and connectors, I should be quite use to seeing a nonchalant deer, intent on his meal mission in someone’s backyard. Where do they learn their attitude?

I think he’s thinking, “Ignore the Human, food is around this corner. . .”

Next to roses, my next favorite flower seems to be poppies. I never realized how many colors poppies came in. Did you know there’s even a lavender color poppy?

I’m always happy when I can walk early. Not only is it a quieter time but also much cooler. Summer months teach us to slow down. It’s time enough to face Autumn’s harvests and Winter’s frost. For now, we savor and endure Summer’s heat, colors, flowers, wildlife and whatever whimsy that falls in our path. I spotted this in the window of a thrift shop.

I call this one the “Perfect Shoes” except these won’t be on my feet, but on someone else’s. I envy the person who can move gracefully on these–most of all, I envy the 4-inches in height this person will gain.

Almost at the end of my last back-lane and close to home when I had to stop in my tracks to take a photo of this striking blue flower. If there’s anyone who know its name, please let me know. Initially I thought of it as an exotic cornflower but it’s not.

Happy July to all of you. Remember this heatwave we are all enduring now. AND don’t forget this when we are all in the throes of icy Winter. Delight in all the Summer moments and don’t forget to hydrate and use your sunscreen when you’re out in that sun.

FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW

humour,

A brand new year always make me think of a fresh snowfall. It’s Day 5 of the new 2023, but I like to view my year as an unblemished canvas, free of footprints so far. It would be unthinkable to have anything marring the progress of a new beginning. However, this is real Life and Fate has a habit of intervening when least expected. And footprints tend to tread in unexpected places.

As the Holiday Season winds down, I started a search for frivolous, not-serious, fun facts that will put any thoughts of war, climate-change, Covid and other sobering thoughts aside for the moment.

The first gem was how to eat a croissant properly. I had never thought one way or the other how to tackle a flaky croissant. After all, flaky crumbs aside, devouring a freshly baked almond or chocolate croissant–even a plain one–warm from the oven, usually results in crumbs on your lap and on your plate. Well apparently, there is a protocol, written by Clarice Knelly, here is the link: https://www.msn.com/en-ca/travel/tripideas/how-to-eat-a-croissant-without-making-a-huge-mess/ar-AA15E2v7?ocid=msedgdhp&pc=U531&cvid=b50d7b75e7354b98d15af3da3f023b8b

Have you ever wondered what Astronauts nibble and nosh on up there in their space jammies? Me too. Guess what? According to the following link, heat resistant Hershey chocolates made a trip to the space station. Why “heat resistant?” Because silly–no one wants melted chocolates on their clean space suits. Here’s the link to “The Time Hershey’s Chocolate Went To The Moon.” https://www.msn.com/en-ca/foodanddrink/foodnews/the-time-hershey-s-chocolate-went-to-the-moon/ar-AA15C3LZ?ocid=msedgdhp&pc=U531&cvid=b50d7b75e7354b98d15af3da3f023b8b

I really love what people throw out on the Internet. Who hasn’t enjoyed unwrapping a Terry’s Orange Chocolate Ball? It is such a novelty to unwrap the orange foil, gently tap the round ball of chocolate and watch the ball fan out with chocolate slices. You’ll have to watch this brief video to see there is a purpose to a piece of the packaging—who would have thought? https://www.msn.com/en-ca/foodanddrink/foodnews/sorry-what-the-packaging-on-a-terry-s-chocolate-has-a-hidden-use/ar-AA15XMaa?ocid=msedgdhp&pc=U531&cvid=50eaebe7cb6349ce8bbb6a7f0fe18532

I saved this gem for last. Wouldn’t you love to impress family and friends by “sabering” the top off a bottle of bubbly. Click on this very helpful link. . .and apparently a sword/saber isn’t necessary. https://msn,com/en-ca/health/wellness/how-to-saber-a-bottle-of-champagne-using-a-sword-spoon-or-even-a-watch/ar-AA15GzKr?ocid=msedgdhp&pc=U531&cvid=50eaebe7cb6349ceBbbb6a7f0fe18532

Hopefully, I’ve plunged us into 2023 with smiles and a bucket of useful information. After all, not everyone knows how to eat a croissant properly or sabering off the top of a bottle of bubbly. . . . .

“NEW AND IMPROVED,” BANISHED HERE

Uncategorized,

I suspect when the words, “New and Improved” appears on any product, item or whatever, it usually means the product, item or whatever has been improved better than the original. I hate these words because for me, it’s usually the kiss of death when these words appear.

Why are products, items or whatever—that are perfectly fine and need no further improvements—are suddenly improved? Is it because the little elves and drone bees have nothing to do except make life miserable for the rest of us who enjoy the product, item or whatever, just the way it is?

Let me put this perplexing problem into perspective with a few examples.

My favorite Belgian dark chocolate almond bar was unavailable for two months due to production and transportation problems. Sound familiar? Well, my favorite chocolate bar finally arrived on store shelves but the fancy new wrapper had sparkly green letters announcing “New and Improved.” How can anyone improve on chocolate? I read the small print on the wrapper. My 72% Belgian dark chocolate with roasted whole almonds has more alien ingredients to preserve its shelf life. If my chocolate bars were being sent to the astronauts on the space station, then the need to add more preservatives are understood. BUT, come on, we’re talking chocolate here and at my house, there’s no worries about chocolate hanging around too long. . .

Some months back, Hubby and I discovered a commercially baked apple-rhubarb pie and a sour cherry pie that tasted as if I had baked them myself. These store-bought pies were delicious. They had all-natural ingredients and that flaky golden crust with the lumpy surface because it was stuffed with great filling. The filling wasn’t that thick, icky-sweet commercial filling, but tasted as if I had peeled, sliced and sweetened with just enough sugar and spices. These pies were the dessert answer when I didn’t have time to bake. Today I saw the pies—new box, new size, new label, new price and with those dreaded words, “New and Improved.” I checked the ingredients and sure enough, there were sufficient chemicals to make that thick, icky-sweet filling and a phony pie crust. It was also a smaller pie with a bigger price. I decided to go home and bake my own.

The absolute, totally worst scenario is when “New and Improved” hits technology. I’m not against any improvements if it makes life easier. BUT, I am against any improvements relating to my computer programs that are working perfectly fine.

Do those techie knuckleheads ever consider the number of people who do not need to link their computers to smart phones, electronic notepads and all the other techie gizmos other people need to stay connected to? I only have my laptop that so far, can be persnickety, but if it had to deal with learning a new system, it (the laptop), would go into such a traumatized state, that no amount of dark chocolates or mini-donuts, would cajole it into a working mode.

I state this with complete sincerity—“Leave my programs alone!” It took me 6 months to learn the ins-and-outs of the previous program and another 6 months to learn the program that’s now been discontinued. I am literally getting older by the minute each time there is a you-know-what announcement. I don’t want to link my computer to my wrist-watch. I like my peace and quiet when I’m away from my desk. There are no buzzes, beeps or cheery tunes to call me back.

I like my old programs because it continually works for me. It doesn’t need any further improvements, So, please leave us a choice of whether or not we want the improved version. My “senior” laptop and “senior” cellphone thanks you.

Wait a sec— I was just about to take a calming bite of my dark chocolate almond bar when I noticed something else in fine print on the spiffy new label. The chocolate company is now under a new “Mother Ship.” If there is anything worse than “new and improved,” it’s called “Under New Management.”

Sigh. Life just handed us another lemon. . . . . .

HOTDOGS AND MINI-DONUTS

humour, ,

I think it’s because an American, Joey Chestnut, won his 15th Nathan Hot Dog eating contest that I even contemplated the thought of having a hot dog for lunch. After all, anyone who can successfully defend his dubious title “Hot Dog King” by gulping down 63 of them of them in 10 minutes—that’s buns and weiners—deserves to have little ol’ me eating at least one. However, Mr. Chestnut must be slipping a tad as last year, he woofed down 76 of them dogs.

But another short article caught my eye , as it too mentioned Joey Chestnut. This time Canadians in Regina, Saskatchewan would be the lucky ones to see Joey in action. He was going to compete in the “Celebrity Mini-Donut” contest in August. Competitors would have to be very good to beat Joey’s world record of chomping down 220 mini-donuts in 8 minutes.

My brain tried to figure out how anyone could possibly force that many mini donuts down their gullet without spewing them back out. My other question was why anyone would want to do that—speed eating specific foods in x number of minutes.

I think everyone is a bit competitive. Back in his youthful days, my neighbour Big Al would recall the good times he and his bowling buddies had every Tuesday night. The “Alley Cats” would compete to see who would end up with the most strikes that night and then celebrated by attempting to outdrink Sweeney Muldoon with pitchers of beer. Sweeney was built like a beer barrel and had the ability to hold his beers. It was a weekly challenge when Sweeney happily guzzled all the free beer he could while each of his competitors fell like 10 pins

We probably all grew up being competitive in various degrees. My hairdresser’s twins, Charlie and Arlie were born competitive. I remember when a very pregnant Liz would suddenly wince when she was clipping my hair.

“Oh no, you didn’t clip a finger did you?

“No, one of the twins just kicked me and the other one kicked back even harder!” See, it starts in the womb.

But back to Joey Chestnut. Who is he and why does he do what he does? Good ol’ Google blabbed everything—at least the juicy bits. . . .

Joey Chestnut is 38 years old, 6 feet tall and when competing, his weight hovers between 225 to 240 pounds. He started competing in 2005 when he gulped down 12 pounds of deep-fried asparagus spears in 10 minutes, beating out his competitors. Major League Eating, an organization that arranges eating competitions ranked Joey as the world’s best eater.

Joey’s diet is not a healthy one but it certainly is a diverse one. A few of his world championships includes devouring 7.61 pounds of buffalo chicken wings in 12 minutes; swallowing 141 hard-boiled eggs in 8 minutes; bolting down 55 glazed donuts in 8 minutes; gulping 390 shrimp wontons in 8 minutes; consuming 121 Twinkies in 6 minutes; shoving down 47 grilled cheese sandwiches in 10 minutes and chomping 32 Big Mac sandwiches in 38 minutes.

I didn’t want to know how he trained for each event and I definitely didn’t want to view any YouTube videos of what he looked like galloping through the competitions. I just know it wasn’t a pretty sight.

“The Sun” reported that , as a professional speed eater, Joey supposedly makes $500,000 annually—a very small portion from the eating contests with most from endorsing various products and brands. One of his past endorsements was for Pepto Bismol. Joey also has his own brand of condiments.

I salute this 38 year old for staying off the bread-lines and finding his own niche in this amazing world we live in. But looking over Joey’s list of unhealthy successes, I hope he switches to another vocation in the near future. It would be nice to think of Joey enjoying his success while he is still young and relatively healthy.

As for me, sharing my bag of hot mini-donuts dipped in cinnamon sugar was a lot more fun to savour and took much longer than 8 minutes to eat a baker’s dozen.

MEN AND CARS

humour, thoughts and observations

Several Readers have requested this blast from the past as they remembered how much their little boys loved their cars when they were toddlers and still love their cars as adults.

I’ve often been baffled by men and their cars. Don’t get me wrong —I adore any male who knows how to handle an ornery car. That takes talent and artistry and a confident craftsman to deal with automotive problems. I’ve seen calm, gentle men go into shock-mode when confronted with the family car—battered and scraped from the war-zone of a shopping mall parking lot.

Me? I just want my car to take me from Point A to Point B without any hassles. And yes, returned safely too, without any new battle scars from careless shopping carts.

I have seen baby boys grasp their teddy bears and their tiny cars. It’s hard to say if the tiny cars take precedence over Teddy but you can bet your accelerator that the cars play a large part in their genetics.

My stepson has always been attracted to cars. Ever since I knew him as a sixteen year old car junkie, he always had his head under the hood and his hands near the engine, dealing with some doohickey that didn’t sound right, while his girlfriend obligingly stepped on the gas pedal for him. When my grandson was barely old enough to cling to the coffee table, he had a tiny toy car in his hand, making that sound like an engine revving up as he circled around the table. I remembered that because our table still has the grooves his tiny car made as he laughed and made car noises.

I am convinced that all baby boys have a genetic gene labeled “cars/trucks.” Little girls aren’t born with this gene even though they do learn about cars from their dads and/or brothers. But little boys are definitely born with the car/truck gene.

At Home Depot, I’ve seen those shopping carts with the miniature cars attached to the front. While little girls ride like princesses, little boys as young as 14-months, instinctively turn the steering wheel, push buttons , pull levers and honk the horn. See, it’s in their genetics.

Two blocks from our condo, there’s a huge construction site on the corner. A little guy, not quite 2 years old, was totally mesmerized by the huge bull-dozer tearing up the corner lot and tossing huge shovelfuls of dirt into the back of a waiting dump-truck. He had such a gleeful expression on his face by simply watching the action across the street. I’ve seen that same expression on a 4-year old who watched the fire-truck pull into the library parking lot. When the fireman noticed the little tyke’s fascination, he asked the little boy if he would like to come and sit beside him. I have never seen a little face beam so joyfully.

Try this on any 6-months old baby boy—hold a toy car in one hand and a soft stuffy in the other. Watch which one his eyes travel to first, At least 90% of the time, he’ll reach for the toy car. Congratulations–you have probably activated his car/truck gene and set the wheels in motion. Darn it, how can you not love a dedicated male and his car?

THE CHAIR

Uncategorized,
The Tilted Stool

When Hubby and I moved from our house to a condo, the selling features were the small den I claimed as my “writing space” and the breakfast nook in the kitchen. We had the perfect table for two that would fit nicely into the nook with enough room for two chairs. Hubby and I decided that two adjustable stools would look absolutely smashing and being a short person, I embraced the idea of sitting “higher” at the table.

Five and a half years later, disaster struck. I blamed Covid. My spouse, wise man that he is, merely rolled his eyes and remained silent.

It wasn’t my fault when parking my butt on the seat, as I normally do, that the seat tilted and threatened to unseat me. I thought I heard the murmur of mini-donuts at the other end of the breakfast table, but Hubby’s attention was focused on his breakfast.

Carefully, I eased myself back on the stool and the most awful groan and screech came from the bowels of the pedestal that raised and lowered the seat. My sub-conscience snickered and said, “Honey, those 72% Dark Chocolate Godiva bars are not the thing to nibble for calorie control.” As I attempted to adjust my weight evenly on the stool, the darn thing screamed in agony and defiantly tipped 45 degrees, staying there in a permanent position. AND, when I slid off to manually straighten the seat, it emitted this terrible moan.

This morning was the final straw. I cautiously approached the stool, gingerly sat on the edge and promptly toppled off. So I did what any short underweight person would do. I went out and got a replacement.

Tomorrow, I will be sitting tall and straight on my new stool that is balanced, comfy and best of all, quiet. . . . .