I’m lost

Everyone knows that real men don’t ask for directions, but few know the real reason why. It’s fear plain and simple. Not fear of being lost, or being wrong, or any minor shortcomings the fairer sex might heap upon us.

The real reason we males are more than reluctant to ask for directions is the overriding fear some female might try to give us directions. That is a sure path to disaster.

For example, my wife the Pearl of the Orient is a very talented lady, but directions and reading maps aren’t her forte. A typical trip question after we have been traveling west for a half-day goes something like this.

“So now we are at west, what direction is that?” she’ll inquire earnestly, while pointing off into the sunset. But in her defense, I must admit she’s a real whiz at keeping the road maps folded neatly and keeping track of my faux pas.

Should the male take his wife’s advice- admittedly, a rare occurrence- and ask the cashier at the gas station for directions, I’ll bet the response from the helpful lady behind the counter will go something like this.

“… that place is just the other side of town. Go up the street to your right,” she says waving her hand left, “up past Mrs. Johnson’s house. It the one with the gingerbread trim and the pink peonies.”

“Then on past Mrs. Smith’s… she’s got that beautiful long porch, with the swing set, and the fuchsia curtains, and turn right before the bridge,” she continues again waving her left arm….

You ask if she might draw you a little map. Mistake number two. This requires a group effort with the other cashier and the food prep staff converging with a napkin and a tube of lipstick. Placing the napkin on the counter, they begin a cooperative work of art, rotating the napkin as lines are drawn and notations noted.

The matter finally comes to a head when the big fat biker waiting impatiently in line behind you snarls, “Three blocks down the hill past the beer store and hang a left!”

You stammer your thanks and hurry off, leaving the staff all huffy about not appreciating their effort.

Luckily things are changing, as Moe showed me on a recent trip in his new van. It was GPS equipped and it only took the better part of two hours for me to get it up and running. The sarcasm and running commentary from Giggles and the Pearl in the back spurred on my efforts. Finally, I got the home address in the gadget changed from California to Drizzle Creek (I think all mini vans naturally home in on California- it’s a Grapes of Wrath thing)

From then on the little red arrow faithfully traced our course down the blue line of the designated highway, except for a couple times when it showed we were driving through a cornfield. Moe assured me we never left the pavement and sure enough we arrived at our destination without once stopping for directions.

On the way home, I continued to tweak the new toy and found a menu that offered voice prompts. I pushed OK and a chill of the coldest ice ran up and down my spine. The computer-generated voice was definitely female. I lost all confidence and began putting it to the test.

“Prepare to turn left in one quarter mile’” it prompted politely.

“Turn left in 300 feet,” it soon added in a stronger tone.

“Turn left in 50 feet,” it ordered even more sternly

“TURN NOW! TURN NOW! TURN NOW!” the voice shrieks, beeps twice, and flashes an error message as we cruise blithely on through the intersection.

“If possible make a legal U turn in 300 feet,” are the new orders, in a voice now dripping with disdain. We ignore the new directions and continue homeward.

And so it went for the next four hours as I furiously programmed in mis-destinations and we joyously ignored the voice prompts. The co-pilots in the back kept making pointed comments about boys and their toys.

But I think the system was learning from our truancy as we prepared to make the last left turn, it directed us to “Turn right and proceed on past Mrs. Johnson’s house, the one with the gingerbread trim and …”

Fish or eat bait

With the Rainy River Walleye Tournament just a few days off, the crew at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek were bemoaning the paucity of fresh shiners, their favourite bait. Even Pickle couldn’t scrounge up a supply from his older brother Dill, nor his younger sibling Gherkin. I dug through my archives and came up with this tidbit penned in 2003 for just such an emergency.

Bait! What’ll it be? Worms? Too much work. Minnows? No money. Blew it all on beer. Time to get creative. Take a look in the kitchen and see what else might do.

Voila! Answer to both you and your wife’s prayers.

A shrimp ring.

Now this is the answer to your wife’s prayers, because although said ring was intended for the Church Women’s meeting this afternoon, she realizes unless you have an adequate supply of bait, there’s always a chance you may come home early…. before the meeting’s over and all the other members of the Auxiliary have safely departed.

She still remembers the last time this occurred when you and your buddies, fresh out of bait, but not beer, arrived in the middle of the luncheon, and took over the kitchen to clean up the rest of the beer, and that stringer of ripe fish.

If nothing else, it sure provided a good serving of gossip- as well as a few new cuss words- for the Auxiliary for the next couple of months.

So you can be assured your wife is more than prepared to negotiate your guaranteed absence for the duration.

Bargaining from a position of strength in this marriage is a completely new experience for you, but don’t let it go to your head. If you play your cards right, not only will you not ever have to waste money on minnows again, you’ll be the envy of all your fishing buddies as well. Here’s how.

The shrimp ring is key, You should be able to negotiate for at least half of it- maybe even all of it, if the Minister’s wife and mother are attending this day. Whatever. On special at $3.99 for 80 pieces, cooked shrimp are way cheaper than minnows at $4.50 a dozen. And they are not as slippery and taste way better. That’s right, “taste better”. Here’s the methodology.

Place your supply of bait- shrimp- in one of those zip lock plastic baggies in one pocket. In another pocket, another baggy of cocktail sauce- the spicy kind if you have an abundant supply of beer and Tums. Then you can bait your hook or snack at your leisure.

If the catching’s slow, ( the fishing itself is always good) you will be the envy of your group. While they cuss, swat flies and try to keep their minnows alive, you enjoy a succulent shrimp cocktail.

On the other hand if the catching is great, as soon as the shrimp bait on your hook starts getting a little tattered, simply dip it, jig and all, into the cocktail sauce and daintily nibble it straight off the hook. Um, Um good! And grossing out your buddies is a top-notch fringe benefit.

A word of caution at this point, make sure you use only barbless hooks.Catch and release takes on a whole new meaning when it’s your tongue or lip that gets caught trying for that last morsel on said hook. You hook yourself, it’s a sure bet, after recovering from a fit of hysterical laughter, your buddies will embellish and spread the news of your misfortune faster and further than the Auxiliary’s review of the Preacher’s current affair with the choir leader.

Aside from the embarrassment, such a tale on reaching the wife’s ears could seriously impair all future supplies of bait from the shopping cart.

So the choice is yours, fish or eat bait..

Off Balance and loving it.

Squirrel Pie

by Jack Elliott

© Copyright

Some marital relationships get can pretty staid with about the only excitement happening when the cat gets its tail caught under the rocking chair. What kind of a life is that anyways? Just sitting there rocking, watching the world go by, and waiting to die.

With the Pearl of the Orient, my wife, life is never that dull, but near death experiences are pretty common for me, so I’m informed.

“Just leave the toilet seat up once more!” or “You bought what?” are the kind of responses I’ve long grown accustomed to. And in my defense, I have to actively seek little earth tremors just to keep the score close to even.

In the last thirty-eight odd years, I have been choked with peach juice, had my butt assaulted with a vicious pinch, my privates zapped with static electricity, my prized wild game cache given away, and my computer drive terrorized, amongst other indignities to my manhood.

So on occasion, I make a pre-emptive strike just to keep the score close and the marital mystery alive. Perhaps you’d like to spice up your relationship. Here’s a few ideas.

While sitting at a charity fundraiser, after your sweetie has cautioned you not to bid twenty bucks on pie because you’re already too fat, drop a $500 bid on the 3-day wilderness fishing trip. Even if you get stuck with the winning bid, the look of “awe and shock” on her face will be worth the pain. When she starts to sputter, simply counter with, “Well, you didn’t really want that new chesterfield anyways, did you?”

However don’t ever expect to come out ahead. It’s not in the cards. I’m still trying to pull even with the Pearl after her classic “gotcha”

I had spent a long morning on the computer doing books and filing junk- a chore I detest. A break was in order so I descended from my inner sanctum.

A gentleman in a suit was sitting at the dining room table enjoying a coffee and in deep discussion with the Pearl. There was an assortment of documents and brochures spread before them. My eyeballs were pretty much burnt from staring at the computer so I couldn’t really focus on the literature and before I could the gentleman jumped up and began pumping my arm with a shake that would have intimidated a seasoned politician.

I was curious. What was going on? Who was this dude? There was no mention from the Pearl earlier of anyone coming and the last door-to-door peddler that stuck his foot in the door on the Pearl is still taking physio for the shattered ankle. Something was afoot here.

“I’m just making funeral arrangements- yours, and maybe mine,” said the Pearl, directing the guest back to his chair.

He almost had his first pick-up right there and then. I know I stopped breathing and I think my heart stopped. My mouth was probably hanging open and a stunned look of shock froze my face. Never at a loss for words, I was speechless. I think you call it sucking wind.

So you see I need help. Any of your suggestions on one-upsmanship, would be greatly appreciated. Please contact me- not the Pearl.

Bountiful harvest

Squirrel Pie

by Jack Elliott

© Copyright

By the time the Emo Fair is over, you have a pretty good idea of how this year’s gardens have turned out. You think strolling through the displays of award winning fruits and vegetables gives you the answer? Think again. You also will not be able to depend on the lies… er, reports, from neighbours of a bountiful harvest.

So how do you gauge that bountiful harvest? You have to use more subtle investigative techniques.

Sweet corn is one delight that used to be pretty much dependable, but with the current massive infestation of raccoons, skunks, bears, and corn borer, across the District, you’ll have to be more than lucky to harvest a good supply. And if you do luck out, there’s a better than even chance, the poachers, announced by slamming car doors in the wee hours, will signal the final decimation of your crop.

In the old days, simply viewing the traffic to the area outhouses could pretty much tell you how bountiful the corn crop was. But not with today’s indoor plumbing.

Here’s the trick. Observe the crowd heading down to pick up the mail, preferably Monday morning, after a weekend of family feasting and when the heavy load of bills and flyers arrive.

You can bet those with a hurried confident stride, taking the steps two at a time, have a total crop failure.

Meanwhile those taking short cautious steps and intently concentrating on their location and progress have a bumper crop. You can confirm this by watching to see if they quickly detour into the café, and make a beeline for the john.

Nothing quite like a massive feed of sweet corn, particularly if accompanied by a big plate of ripe tomatoes and burpless cucumbers, to test the control of bodily functions.

So now you know how to locate the bounty, and who to mooch off, proper garden season etiquette comes into play. Avoid embarrassment by following these few important rules.

First, don’t insist on stopping that fidgeting friend on the street and relating the latest belly-laugh inducing story.

Secondly, never…NEVER… poke that same friend unexpectedly in the belly, or some other bodily location, particularly if they are bent over checking their mailbox. You’ll both be sorry.

Thirdly, that old two-holer outback should be cleaned of cobwebs and certainly sprayed for wasps and hornets. Throw in a couple of past editions of the paper and post a welcome sign on the door. But caution, make sure the inside latch is removed. After all it is a two-holer, and you never know when unexpected company might have to drop in.

Frying pan Justice

Squirrel Pie

By Jack Elliott

© Copyright

Since real men don’t shop, I was killing time while my wife, The Pearl of the Orient, selected a new bathing suit. There were several thousand in her size range. It promised to be a long process.

As I wandered the houseware aisles heading for a gander at the new giant flat-screen TVs, another shopper on a mission hurried past. Abruptly, 20 yards in front of me at the frying pan display, she stopped and began a detailed inspection of the wares. With a pan in each hand, she tested the heft, and inspected the bottom of each. A real study in concentration.

As I sauntered past, I glanced at her. We made eye contact, so I had to do the socially correct thing and speak.

“You know, neither one of those is heavy enough to kill him with one whack,” I opined, while trying unsuccessfully to suppress a smirk.

Without hesitation she shot back, “That’s okay. I don’t mind hitting him twice.”

I moved out of range. Nothing more dangerous than a decisive female.

Back in Drizzle Creek, while relating the incident over coffee at the Bakery some days later, Pickle and the Runt, exchanged strange glances. A modicum of prodding managed to pry out the story.

It seems while on one of their regular fishing trips, while unstowing the gear for a shore lunch, Pickle turned around unexpectedly and caught The Runt across the top of the head with the cast iron frying pan.

It is unclear how long The Runt was laid out on the island or if there were any repercussions. But it couldn’t have been too serious as they are still fishing buddies.

As he picked up another piece of toast slathered with peanut butter, The Runt, however, gingerly explored his scalp with his left hand and commented, “No physical scars, just emotional ones.”

Curse of the Purse

Monday, July 30, 2007

Squirrel Pie

By Jack Elliott

© Copyright

Men, thank goodness have wallets. Although they will swell to the proportions of a cane toad before exploding, they’ve nothing on the female purse.

The lady’s handbag or purse is a wonderful invention run-a-muck. Invented before pockets, the purse has a lineage and personality as unique as each owner.

First size. Most younger females can get by quite handily with a small grip, to hold the ‘necessaries’, like make up, keys, I.D.s and yes, even money. Not so the more mature matron, or Doňa.

I think purse size starts to increase a motherhood bursts onto the scene. Partly as an unconscious response to increasing body size and definitely to and increasing need for ‘wet wipes’, soothers, squeaky toys, and other baby goodies.

The male on the other hand simply let’s the parental gut expand outward and down over the belt. Soothers and toothing toys are readily supplied by a greasy finger and as for wipes, what else are ratty old sweat shirts for?

But the purse is never given up. It simply grows and grows, as it expands to the size of a Pullman. I speak from a position of authority. My wife, the Pearl of the Orient, has a whole collection of voluminous fashion accessories. When she, her sister, and her friends venture out into the mall on senior’s day, it looks like a whole gaggle of prehistoric hunter-gatherers with huge sacks out gleaning the countryside of every useful item. They all have permanent curvature of the spine and gimpy knees from subjecting themselves to decades of purse abuse.

Getting stuck behind one at the checkout is a real experience- if you’ve got the time.

“How much is it? Seventeen, thirty-three? Let me find my money.”

Open Sesame! The reluctant zipper opens in fits and starts, jammed by a lace napkin.

“Oh, I saved that from lunch at Chez Pierre’s. It was just to fancy to throw out,” exclaims the Purse Meister as the now shredded lace is cooed over, refolded and tucked back into the bag.

Then another napkin with a stain soaking through and a distinctly ripe odor surfaces. “O dear, there’s that piece of salmon, I saved from the buffet for Fifi last week. I guess I forgot about it. Here Dear, could you put that in your waste basket?” gagging only mildly, the clerk complies tossing it into the waste at the next checkout.

Next, the makeup is excavated. Enough to prepare half the cast for a Hollywood epic. Nuff said.

Finally the money. A $100.00 bill. That presents a problem. Nothing over $20 accepted smiles the clerk tapping the sign and explaining the problem with fake $100s. “Oh, not a problem Dear, I’ve lots of coins here.” and another bag, a Crown Royal pouch, complete with draw string is extracted. Untying the knot takes less than five minutes.

This treasure of pennies, dimes and quarters not only explains why the Mint has an ongoing severe shortage of coins, it also reveals why foiled purse snatchers suffer from so many pulled back muscles and severe concussions. After collapsing from the unexpected weight of their snatched prizes, their skull is nearly crushed from a well aimed swing of the purse as it is retrieved by the offended Doňa. Who said our currency has no weight?

Finally it’s down to the nitty gritty. “Oh dear, this is mostly my U.S. change and we may need it for the toll bridge next month. I’m 48 cents short. Would you pay Dear?” she says turning to a non-plussed hubby who extracts a twenty and refuses her help with some uneven change. The transaction is completed and re-stowing of the contents starts. The only hiccup is the still balky zipper causing the Doňa’s fingers to slip off the clasp and thrust an escaping elbow into the solar plexus of the next customer in line who was foolish enough to get within range.

Profuse apologies follow with the unlucky victim able only to gasp and grimace while hurriedly shelling out their bucks and escaping to their double-parked car- the one the cop is busy ticketing.

Her purchase complete, the Doňa rejoins the herd. Raul trails behind laden with bags.

“Come along Dear. Don’t dawdle!”

Challenging Memory

Squirrel Pie

by Jack Elliott

© Copyright

Friday, July 25, 2007

It’s got to be an x/y chromosome thing. That seems to be the only rational for faulty male memory.

No female has ever admitted forgetting anything, particularly if it has to do with some perceived shortcoming of her spouse. I say perceived, because what the female identifies as a male shortcoming is likely in fact a male survival strategy.

Like, “Honey, I can’t find my socks!”

“Did you look in the laundry basket?”

“There’s none there. Besides, all the ones I left on the bedroom floor… er, put in the cloths hamper… had holes in them. Did you mend them?”

“No! Look in the garbage can and then the clothing counter at the store!”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. I’ll pick up a bit more fishing tackle while I’m at it.”

“Huuummmmpf!”

So you see, by following this system, you can a) get out of mending your socks with the ensuing danger of self-administered acupuncture, b) splurge on new socks with tacit spending approval, and c) load up on a whole season’s fishing tackle with the treasurer none the wiser. And all the time you maintain the illusion of female memory superiority without muddying the domestic waters- too much.

At other times it’s not so simple.

When you take the kids out for a walk, it’s important to remember not to let the baby play in the grass where the dogs poop. Yes, Drizzle Creek does have pet owners who do not obey the “pooper-scooper” bylaw.

Ignoring the mess until you get home can be quite a challenge. Scott says it takes months of practice to be able to convincingly recite, “Smell? What smell? I didn’t notice. I don’t remember any place we could have come across dog poop!”

Fishing is a whole other memory challenge. Pickle claims he can remember, to the millimetre, the size and location of every fish he ever caught. The size is, of course, an outright lie. And the location specification evaporated this season when he invested in a new boat, forgetting to note the Xs he had placed on the bottom of the old boat for locating great fishing holes.

He is, however, tackling the problem with a new GPS gadget. Now if he could only remember how to run it and take along a fresh set of charged batteries! Remembering to bring a loaf of bread home from the bakery also remains a challenge.

The Runt faces a different memory challenge- remembering to empty the minnow bucket at the end of the fishing trip. Rose had noticed a gaggle of stray cats nosing around the garage and then gagging as they sniffed a cooler in the corner. A partial lift of the lid exposed the almost fully vapourized remains of a package of previously frozen shiners definitely past their ‘best before date’. The cooler and all contents made a quick trip to the curb. It was garbage day.

“Dear, have you seen my boat cooler?” whined Ken. The ensuing explanation was very clear.

“But it had all my best tackle in it!” wailed the forgetful male.

Oh, and Ken, remember to pick up some socks, while you’re restocking that new cooler and tackle box.