A remote possibility

I thought the new big screen for Mother’s Day was great idea. My wife, The Pearl of the Orient didn’t even twig to it. Even after watching it for two hours, there was not the slightest glimmer of recognition or appreciation.

And then she saw the new remote.

“What’s that thing for!” she demanded, with scorn generally reserved for a vile serpent.

“It’s just the TV remote,” I replied with equanimity

“NOOO! This is the TV remote!” stated the Pearl forcefully; waving the other new remote we had received two days earlier for the new satellite receiver.

“ Yes,” I replied calmly and clearly, “but that’s for the satellite, not the new TV.”

“What new TV?” questioned the Pearl, her eyes searching every corner of the room but the one where the giant one-eyed monster stood?

Finally cluing in that the only TV in the room was considerably larger, the Pearl uttered a resounding,”Humpff! Now I’ll have to learn how to use another stupid clicker. Dumb TV.”

Why, I wondered did she feel she had to learn to use another remote. After all, The Pearl still had not mastered the previous satellite remote we had owned for the past decade.

“Elliott, this stupid TV won’t work again!” is a fairly common utterance in our household.

Then it struck me- the reason that is, not the remote- for this phenomenon, but my conclusion required more investigation, so I retired to the Bakery, first thing Monday morning. The usual collection of wit and wisdom were seated at the debating table.

“Does anyone else here have a problem with their spouse not knowing how to run the TV remote?” I asked the assembled faces.

“TV and Video Input settings! Simply hasn’t a clue. I fix it at least twice a week,” snorted the Runt as he troweled a half-inch layer of peanut butter on three slices of flaxseed toast. High fibre and Omega 3 fatty acids- the Runt is on a health kick.

“But don’t quote me on that,” he cautioned, shooting hopelessly for continued domestic peace.

Moose, just back from a successful turkey hunt, along with photographic proof (but you know how he likes to use Photoshop) kept his own counsel, not wanting to stir deep waters.

Then Sheila surprised us all by stating it for a fact, she had on occasion had to run home at lunchtime and change the channel for Jack.

So this isn’t a male/female thing after all. It’s simply why bother learning any new tricks if your spouse already knows how to do it. So when the kids leave home, one of you will have to learn how to program the remote.

As for the Pearl and I, I’ve got the TV remote covered. But for the life of me I can’t figure out how dishes are washed the right way, or the proper method of sweeping the floor. And the washing machine- not even a remote possibility

It’s a guy thing

“Why didn’t you just take it to the garage like I SUGGESTED?” asked my wife, the Pearl of the Orient, as she swathed by abraded knuckles with a layer of bandages. The Pearl is ever ready to remind me of her SUGGESTIONS.

“Don’t forget we’re seniors on fixed income and besides I blew the surplus on that big screen TV for you for Mother’s Day,” I shot back as the pain from the disinfectant sent burning throbs up my arm.

“For me? Yeah, right! I was happy with the old one. Now I have to figure out how to run TWO new remote controls. I was just getting comfortable with the old one (after four years),” snorted the Pearl. There is a remote possibility the Pearl is right, but that’s another whole column.

The latest incident had started as that right of spring came around- switching the snow tires for the summer ones. Since we spend all winter in Florida, I wasn’t even sure why we bother with snow tires, and then I look back on the past two weeks and know. Where is global warming when we really need it!

Besides which, having owned this particular vehicle for about four years it was time I figured out where the jack is. Never know when you might have to change a tire. Particularly since I kicked over that can of drywall screws in the drive way and my little compressor has barely enough wind to blow up a tire with a slow leak. A major hiss and it wouldn’t stand a chance.

I tugged on the grungy old coveralls. The family off mice residing in the pocket scampered down the one leg, only one of them hesitating to nip me before running up the inside of my pant leg. Three good swats ended his upward mobility and the bruises should fade in about a week or so.

Properly attired I dug the summer wheels out of the corner of my neat workshop. The avalanche of tools, lumber, flowerpots, old computers, and plumbing supplies pretty much missed me. The explosion of the old monitors picture tube did add an air of excitement. I’ll clean it up next week- maybe.

Extracting the jack from its storage compartment convinced me of one fact. It was put there as a required option, but was never made to be used- not ever. Automotive design engineers are either the most perverse, masochistic, sadists or have never changed a tire themselves. I have those abraded knuckles to prove it.

Eventually I got it out and even figured which part of the car body you place it under to lift the beast. I looked at the crank and the physical effort it would require. But hey, I have an electric impact wrench that will be much quicker and way easier.

“ Brrrraaaappp!” Down came the jack, pinching my finger in its grip! Through flashes of searing pain, I figured out how to reverse it. “Brrrraaaapppp!” Up it goes. The string of profanity didn’t help ease the pain, but it certainly perked up the ears of the kids at the Day Care next door. Their caregivers rushed them into the sanctity of the shelter. “How come Mr. Elliott uses those funny words?” several of them wondered aloud. Another parent delegation in the offing?

The rest of the operation was rather uneventful, if you don’t count the two times the van tipped off the jack, or the explosion of the compressor tank when I backed over it. I didn’t even bother trying to stow the jack properly. Just tossed it in its compartment where it can rattle away for the next couple of years.

“Well, why didn’t you just take it to the garage and let them do it?” demanded the Pearl for about the sixth time.

I thought long and hard before I offered up the only explanation I knew the Pearl would accept, “You just don’t understand, it’s a guy thing.”

In the heat of the night

All the best stories are true. My bother-in-law, Ralph Jorgensen, an Albertan, related this unvarnished experience.

The weather was hot and muggy, as only it can be at the centre of the universe---the wife's hometown in Southern Ontario.

"But dear, you'll enjoy it down there. Warm evenings, romantic walks, and gardens… gardens to die for. Perhaps even a few rusty old tractors in fencerows to gloat over. We'll have a wonderful trip."

The last one was a clincher. Anyone can have a garden; just throw some seeds in the dirt, pull a few dandelions, and voila, a garden. But old tractors, they have a siren call and charisma all their own.

We were staying at the sister-in-law's place at John and Main. Insulation hadn't been thought of in the century when her house was built. HEAT was spelled in capital letters.

The bed sheets were clammy. By midnight sleep was still at third base, apparently never wanting to reach home.

I had enough!

I remembered a far, far better place—downstairs on the sofa, under the fan. Numbly I made my way down the steps. Stubbed toes and abraded elbows meant nothing. I was a man on a mission, to find a place with fewer BTU'S.

Cool air wafting from the fan did the job. Heaven on earth! It was here! I lay prone on that wonderful lounge. It was simply bliss. Soon I drifted off to sleep.

Apparently others were suffering from the intense heat as well;

the sister-in-law, for instance. Liz had the same idea, of achieving nirvana in a cooler place---that sofa downstairs under the fan.

Now Liz knows her way around; after all it is her house.

No stubbed toes or skinned knees as she effortlessly and silently glided through the darkness. She reached the sofa and lowered herself.

Liz's bottom and my stubbled face lined up perfectly. It must have been quite a sight, had my eyes been open.

Liz's scream and subsequent levitation startled me into an awareness only available to those who have experienced a vision.

I don't exactly know what height Liz achieved at 1:30 AM that night, but stray bits of hair tangled in the fan overhead made me wonder.

The house now sports a brand new air conditioner.

As well, Liz seems to be recovering from that noticeable stutter.

A reasoned observation

We've all done it. In the heat of the moment you dash through the washroom door, realizing too late, you're in the wrong department. Your reaction upon seeing the error of your ways is to either make a hasty retreat or carry on and brave out the consequences.

I'm not referring to the deliberate invasion of the men's facilities by the likes of my wife, the Pearl of the Orient. This bold soul's actions are in direct and deliberate response to the architectural community's collective inability to apply time and motion studies to the design and capacity requirements of washrooms for the fairer sex.

Stand in line at the women's washroom and wait? Never!

"Excuse me gentlemen, but I've got to go! Carry on," states the Pearl as she discreetly raises her hand to shield her vision, and boldly bypasses the urinals on her way to the stalls.

The following male experience, however, was a little different.

It is the German Club. Those steins of Oktoberfest suds are demanding release and the only thought on seeing all the stalls and no urinals is, "I guess these Germans do things a little differently." Without reflection or a backwards glance it is a mad dash for the nearest cubicle.

Nature's pressing demands are answered and the relief is most satisfying.

Then the timorous voice from the adjoining stall.

"Elizabeth is that you?" quavers the voice.

"No, I'm down here. Why?" replies Elizabeth from a few feet further on.

"Oh dear! I think there is a man in the stall next to me," answers the voice with some trepidation.

After a moment's silence Elizabeth shoots back, "How do you know it's a man?"

"Well," states the timid, but reasoning voice, "The feet are pointing in the wrong direction."

The Bump

The Bump

“Ziggy had a bump?” I asked somewhat astonished. It was the first news I had received upon return from a winter in sunnier climes.

Other than that, nothing much had changed as I pulled up a chair at the debating table in the Bakery in Drizzle Creek. Pickle was sucking on a cup of mint tea, while the Runt was chowing down on a couple of cream-filled long-johns. Moose having spent half the day at the table was just taking up space, as he bragged of his skills as a wild turkey stalker in preparation for his annual trip to the Missouri Breaks.

“Yeah, here he comes now. He’ll fill you in on all the details,” Pickle stated as he nibbled on his cookie and Ziggy came striding towards the door, then stopped and retreated to the curb to stomp the mud and barnyard residue from his boots. He is so well trained in that regard The Boss doesn’t even have to wait at the door and take a swing at him with the broom anymore to keep from tracking up the joint.

As he settled at the table he let out a raucous bray and started his tale, “ I tell you, I don’t think it was no bump!”

“I was just getting’ some pain killers fer my back and they insisted on takin’ my blood pressure. It was a little high so they said come back in a week and they’d check ‘er again. So I come back, they checked it again and said I needed an EKG,” snorted Ziggy really into the swing of the tale now.

“An EKG? Is that like when they hook your truck up to the scope at the shop?” interrupted Pickle. Pickle has to distill all information he receives into a comparison of his Ford pickup. It’s the only way he can properly relate.

“Yeah,” snorted Ziggy impatiently, “ and after running a diagnostics on me, they said I was having a bump and needed to get to the hospital right away.”

“I told ‘em I would run right over, but they would have none of it,. Slapped me in a wheel chair, scooted me next door hooked me up to some plumbing and pumped me full of drain cleaner.

“You mean like your fuel injectors were plugged,” quizzed Pickle as he took another nibble of his cookie, and held up his teapot for some more hot water. Pickle likes to squeeze every bit of goodness out of a teabag.

“I don’t know. I was feelin’ fine, but the Doc said my tracings were way off and I was sending out strange electrical impulses. So they got me on the air ambulance and flew me into the Peg for an angio, “ explained Ziggy as he looked longingly at the second chocolate long-john the Runt had just started on.

“Electrical misfire! Maybe you just needed a new set of plug wires?” wondered Pickle as he nibbled cautiously to make sure his cookie lasted to the end of his tea.

“I don’t know. They couldn’t find a thing wrong,” snorted Ziggy, sucking up the last of his coffee.

“I’ll bet they had the firing order wrong. I think you Pine Stump models are wired different than us good Dutch engines,” offered Pickle.

“Whatever! They kept me in the hospital eight days. But the worst thing was nobody visited me the whole time,” Ziggy whimpered as a big tear formed in one eye, ran down his face and plopped into his coffee cup.

“Well I heard you died. Wasn’t much sense in visiting. And to think I wasted all that money on a new suit,” opined the Runt as he licked the last of the chocolate long-john off his fingers and looked jealously at the other half of Pickle’s cookie.

“Yeah, and now I’m on a diet,” whined Ziggy. “I gained 10 lbs in the hospital.”

Then resistance crumbling, he brayed, “Say Val, I’ll have one of those long-johns.”

Hi! How you doing?

“How you doing? “

It’s a greeting that rolls off our lips without thought or hesitation.

“Fine.” Is the answer we expect. Again without thought or hesitation.

Lawrence Gushulak always replied, “Terrible.”

It was unsettling, My automatic reply of, “That’s great!” caused me a great deal of pain as I managed to bite off and swallow it. I obviously was being set up to see if I was listening to him. But I fought back.

“Hey, you’re looking great, Lawrence.” Was my greeting next time I climbed into the chair for a cut.

“Terrible! How do you want it cut?” replied Lawrence.

“A little more off the top and less off the sides, than last time,” I answered.

Lawrence proceeded to cut it exactly the same as he had for the previous 15 years. He wasn’t listening either.

It’s amazing the automatic responses we issue, through habit or training without paying the slightest thought or heed to the responses.

“What would you like for dinner?” quizzes my wife, the Pearl of the Orient on a semi-regular basis?”

“How about a nice stir-fry with rice,” I reply absently without pulling my eyes away from the computer screen.

“Do you want mashed or baked potatoes, with the pork chops?” she asks back.

“Yes, and gravy with the roast beef, would be great,” I add.

We enjoyed the poached eggs on whole-wheat toast.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” is a favourite at the checkout counter.

A response of “No..” often as not will result in a blank stare, “That’ll be 15.99. Plastic or paper?”

On a rare occasion you might get an, “Oh! What can I help you with?”

An excellent opportunity to drop a preprogrammed wisecrack. But beware!

“Strength and inspiration,” is a favourite response of David, the proprietor of Fresh Coffee and Hot Beignets (are they ever good!) in Panama City Beach.

The blank stare and dropped jaw are occasionally replaced by, “I’m sorry we’re out of stock,” or “Perhaps some Preparation H would do. Would you like a 4 oz tube or a box of suppositories? You obviously need some”

Moe’s best response is, “ No, I can’t find that $20 bill I dropped here yesterday.”

“One sharp clerk replied, “O yes, I found it. I used it to buy lunch. It was delicious. Thank you so much.”

So, how’re ya doing anyways?

There goes Santa Claus

Some of our most vivid memories are of childhood events. We old codgers may not be able to remember what we had for breakfast, but can recall every detail of our first Christmas concert.

At my first, I was a bumblebee. We each had cardboard cutouts we coloured black and yellow ourselves. We held them up in up in front of us and danced in a line across the stage. It was exciting. Half way through the song I remember grabbing myself and promptly peeing my pants. The appreciation of this performance was startling- the attendant roar of laughter and applause was deafening.

It was like yesterday. Hmmmm, what’s that dampness? Maybe it was….

Marlin Cowser of Colorado and a part time resident of Morley was relating his most memorable childhood Christmas memory.

As a small child on the farm, my father and grandfather were always up early and out to the barn to milk the cows. Christmas morning was no exception and I remember one Christmas like it was yesterday. Some cattle had broken out of the barnyard, and like a bunch of rambunctious kids on a spree, had run up by the house knocking a couple pickets off the fence while jumping it, tore across the fresh snow of the front yard, and escaped into the field.

Grandpa and Dad had routinely got them back into the barnyard, but then Grandpa rushed back in the house, delivering the exciting news to the grandkids.

“Quick, Santa Claus and his reindeer, just crossed the front yard! You can see their tracks and where they hit the fence and if you hurry you might still be able to see them going across the field!” he exclaimed.

In bare feet and pyjamas we all rushed out into the snow and sure enough, there were the fresh tracks and damaged fence. To this day I am absolutely certain we all glimpsed the team, sleigh, and driver disappearing over the last hill.

Hope your Christmas was happy and you received a few nuts in your stocking. See you in 08!