Morning Vignettes PT 3 at The Little Red Roaster

Men are from Mars. Granted.

Women are from Venus. Granted.

(I would even allow that women are from farther away than that).

Case in point -

While my wife and I were comfortably sipping coffee at The Roaster this morning, a woman entered who looked an awful lot like someone I’d met - and mentioned to my wife - a few weeks earlier.

I had been enjoying coffee at Williams Cafe with another retired teacher and friend when a woman sat down at the same large table - with a girl friend, but too close to me for my comfort - and almost immediately entered my world with comments related to the ongoing conversation I was having with my aforementioned friend.

Worse still, when her meal order arrived, she offered me part of her date square.

Now, I love date squares but said, "Thanks - but no," and without being rude (in my opinion), I continued to engage only with my friend.

Later, the same day, when I shared the above with my wife, I described the woman as “kinda annoying, too gregarious for my liking, interruptive.”

But when I saw the woman this morning I said to my wife, “I think that’s the lady who was being so smarmy a few weeks back.”

Immediately my wife recoiled, her nose wrinkled.

“Smarmy?” she said. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“She was being kind of... ,” I began again, then paused, drawing a blank.

My wife filled in the blank with the following, which may explain why I started this scene with reference to planets far away:

“When I think of smarmy I think of someone revolting, stinking, covered in fish guts.”


[“Fish guts? How did she come up with that?”: photo link here]

WTHeck, I thought.

“Where have you been in life where you ever saw such a thing?” I said. “Smarmy isn’t that bad. It’s more like being too familiar, even clingy.”

“I agree with clingy,” she said. “Why didn’t you just say clingy, because smarmy is terrible.”

WTHeck, I thought. I not only don’t know where she picked up the fish guts imagery, I don’t know where I am in this conversation.

For 41 years I’ve known this woman.

Well, I thought I did.

[End of Scene 3.]

***

My head is still swimming with the fishes.

If you feel context is required (and I know I do), click here for Morning Vignettes PT 2.

.

My Memoirs: And I’m Not Even Dead Yet

My Memoirs: And I’m Not Even Dead Yet

Introduction

This is all rather sudden, I know.

I was recently doing some Christmas shopping at Chapters in London, Ontario, and came across a new book by Bill Bryson entitled ‘The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid - A Memoir.’

I was stunned.

I thought, Bryson’s dead? He’s not older than me, is he?

Then I corrected myself. He wasn’t older than me, was he?


["Ready for adventure": GH circa 1950]

I picked up the book from the Bargain Shelf. It was greatly reduced in price. $9.99. Excellent.

I thumbed through it and saw a picture of Bill as a child. Cute kid. So was I once. I read a few lines and realized Bill was the author and had written his own memoirs before he died, which is - or was - probably the right time.

Then I thought, maybe he’s not dead. Maybe he just wanted to get things down on paper before he forgot. None of us is getting any younger. I know I’m not.

I returned the book to the shelf because I figured it would likely be a couple of bucks cheaper after Christmas.

And when I got home later that day I decided to start writing my own memoirs, but call the book by a different name.

I think the title, ‘My Memoirs: And I’m Not Even Dead Yet’ is an honest assessment of where I am with my life at present and am hoping this new writing project will inspire me to reflect on all of my life's interesting adventures, even travel a bit more than usual, maybe even write a book about that, too.

Bill Bryson writes (or, wrote) a lot of great books about his adventures. Why can’t I?

And so it begins.

GH

***

GH will honestly attempt to add to his memoirs on a weekly or twice-weekly basis.

However, adventures may cut into his writing time.

He’s off!

.

I Ask You: McDonald's Egg McMuffin - what's it supposed to taste like??

I know that Ol' McDonald had a farm. I used to sing the song.

EIEIO.

But on the way out of town this morning I picked up an Egg McMuffin for the first time in years (the coffee was free; that raises a second question) and by the time I was 5 miles down the 401 I was wondering, what's it supposed to taste like?

The English muffin seemed a bit off to me.

The egg didn't quite match up in the taste department, compared to the eggs I scrambled yesterday.

The cheese tasted a bit like plastic.

Good thing I had some free coffee to wash it down or else the meal would have been a complete bust.

***

I think I overpaid - $2.39 - for what it's worth.

Q2: Is that why the coffee is free?

.

Zoom w a View: American Express, toothbrush, lederhosen, camera...

That’s right, I never leave home without my camera.


["I almost had the street to myself": photos by GH]

You may be surprised about the lederhosen but there’s a group of us guys who like to... never mind. If you don’t square dance, you wouldn’t be interested.


While walking back home - slowly, enjoying the view - from a coffee shop in Wortley Village I noticed that the leaves were starting to fall. (Years ago, someone else noticed the same thing and changed the name of the current season from Autumn to Fall).


Except for the other guy (see first photo), I had the street of myself.




I pulled the camera from the back pocket of my lederhosen.

***

Surprised about the lederhosen?

I bought a used pair at Value Village because the back pocket was big enough for a camera, comb and travel mug.

Please click here to view Postcards From the Side of the Road.

.

The Lite News: How would you answer this question?

Police: Do you know what you’re growing in the pots on your porch?

65-year old grandmother: Yes. Reefer. I planted it.

Stop the presses! Wait just a doggone minute!

This really happened. While Memphis police were investigating a matter in a local neighbourhood recently, they noticed potted plants outside a person’s house. They knocked on the door. They asked Helen Franklin, age 65, the above $5,000 question. (Helen has been charged and is being held on a $5,000 bond).


["Arnie. Someone's at the door for you."]

In my opinion, however, there are several answers to the question that I’d try first - if I’d been in the grandmother’s situation.

Let’s run through this again.

Knock, knock.

Police: Do you know what you’re growing in the pots on your porch?

GH: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

I don’t have any pots on my porch.

Let me get my glasses. I can’t see a thing.

Darn kids these days.

My wife buys the plants around here. Let me go get her.

***

How would you answer the question?

.

Teachers’ Pension owns Maple Leafs, now mattresses. Connection?

If you didn’t hear, here’s the scoop, as reported in the Sept. 26 issue of The London Free Press:

“One of Canada's largest pension funds, the Ontario Teachers' Pension Plan Board, cited "attractive industry fundamentals" yesterday for its decision to buy a major stake in Simmons Co., the iconic but troubled U.S. mattress manufacturer.”

Very good, I thought. As a retired teacher I want my pension to be safe - and by golly - everybody has to go to bed sometime.


["One... two... now go to sleep"]

Then I read the part about “iconic but troubled.”

Geez, we already bought into The Toronto Maple Leafs. What’s more iconic and troubled than the Leafs? Shouldn’t we be buying things that are perhaps a little less troubled, you know, for the sake of balance?

Then I made the brilliant connection.

Leaf fans turn on their TV. Watch the Leafs struggle. Start to yawn. Rub their eyes. Say, “I’m going to bed, Sweetie-pie.”

And what’s beneath their bottom sheet? Ca-chinga.

***

Anything else that’s ‘iconic and troubled’ that would be a good fit for my pension fund?

Don’t suggest any of Canada’s political parties. Please.

.

The lifespan of my stretchy jeans has been surprising

Everyone needs at least one pair of stretchy jeans.

I bought mine several years ago at Value Village, not knowing they were stretchy jeans at the time, and I think had I known, I might have scoffed at the idea.

“I don’t need to accommodate a bulging waist. I’ll keep in good shape by exercising various muscle groups 12 times per week.”

Yeah, I’m so mature.


["Can you spot the elastic?": photo GAH]

However, once I discovered I owned a pair of stretchy jeans I used them regularly, and for special occasions, especially during Thanksgiving and Christmas Day meals.

The jeans have held up surprisingly well (and have helped me keep my pledge to not buy new clothes until 2010; see Green Ideas 2009, way down side margin). I think they’re closing in on 10 - 15 years old, and since I feel like I’m only 40 - 45 years old, have help knock 20 years off my age.

Not bad for an old pair of Mustangs.

***

re Green Ideas 2009. Due to a brain cramp I bought a new straw hat in June. Once I realized what I had done I put it away, and purchased a used straw hat from Venezuela - found at a flea market in Fenelon Falls.

Used and sexy lookin’. Yeah, like my jeans.

.

So, I turned right on Georgian Bay

I have finally figured out why I’ve been less that peppy this week.

definition: peppy - adj. energetic, possessing enough strength to open a jar of dill pickles without assistance

Turns out my photos from last weekend’s trip to the Bruce Peninsula held the answer.

After two hours of kayaking last Saturday I turned right on Georgian Bay and paddled back toward camp.


It was all uphill. Who knew?


Fortunately, the bay leveled out as I approached shore. But barely had enough strength to scare the gulls off my island and open a cold jar of pickles.

***

Next week, I’ll be back to top form.

.

The Simple Life: One more reason I will never own a Blackberry

I attended a meeting after yesterday’s hockey game, slammed down two slices of pizza faster than you could say ‘take a breath, man’ and watched a funny scene develop at and under the boardroom table.

I noticed two fellows playing with something in their pockets. Then they shifted in their seats, dropped their heads and put something in their laps.

I thought, they brought their own napkins?


["Send more pizza. Send"]

Then they made eyes at each other, and chuckled at the same time.

Blackberries, I said to myself.

I peaked under the table and found I was right.

No Blackberry for me. Too distracting at board meetings.

I’d rather concentrate on the pizza.

.

Life in the fast lane shouldn’t come in the can

I’ve got phone calls to make (my mini-protest and upcoming column re Highland Country Club tax deal just got more interesting) so breakfast is nuked tea and a pb and j sandwich. No time for toast.

While putting the pb jar away I spotted the bane of my existence - powdered gravy in a can.


["Things I wouldn't put on my potatoes": photo by GAH]

Though my wife and I are getting older and busier (almost at the same time - it’s eerie), don’t take time to cook meat and potatoes on a regular basis, and eat out more, there are some convenience foods that send a shiver down my spine.

Powdered gravy? I see the “JUST add boiling water!” and immediately imagine the following scene:

Some guy named Biff is sweeping up the floor at a chemical factory and is about to throw a pile of dust and bits into a bin when he stops, scratches his head, and says to his foreman, “What happens if we add water to this crap?”

“It’s BISTO baby, it’s BISTO!”

I’m sticking with margarine for my powdered potatoes. You?

***

Isn’t instant gravy way over the line?

.

So, what’s with the funky headband, dude?

Well, I used to wear one to keep hair out of my eyes.

Hey, it was 1974. Gimme a break.


["It's not a good look": photo by PAH, wife of GAH]

It wasn’t a good look for me, I admit, but because my hair and beard were just a tad longer than the navy blue shag carpet in our rented house in Old North London (sure, it sounds like a sophisticated address but trust me, ya gets what ya pay for!) an unflattering headband was an important accessory while jogging.

[Note to runners: In the ‘70s ‘jogging’ was the appropriate term. ‘Wanna go for a jog’ was a very popular request on my block, second only to ‘what’s that you have growing in your backyard?’ And yes, white socks to the knee were all the rage. Sorry, I digress, though only slightly.]

I have the accompanying and significant photo pinned to a corkboard in my workshop.

It reminds me that I was about two inches taller in ‘74. (Maybe because of the tennis shoes and high hair).

It reminds me, every time I look at it, that my life is blessed.

My first son was three and a half years old in 1974, wanted to run with me, completed the one mile route without difficulty and when we arrived home said to me, “Let’s do it again.”

I’ve had many running partners since, but never a better one.

The photo reminds me how much my two boys have changed and contributed to my life. We connect on many different levels; as runners, thinkers, fathers, lovers of music, art and sips of single malt, for starters only. They (and their mother) are the main reason I smile with confidence.

Though we don’t agree on everything on this we’re firm - we’ll never wear headbands again.

.