> A slip and a fall  –

The serious side of a “slip and fall” of course relate to potential injury or damage to self and other items involved in the event. Like slipping from a rung and falling off a ladder while trying to hang an expensive framed shadowbox with antique porcelain plates. Sprained ankle, broken finger, busted shadowbox and plates (didn’t happen to me, but nicely illustrates the point). Now if that is in a video clip on America’s Funniest videos or on YouTube, we crack up seeing it.

I have laughed and cursed when I have fallen. It just depended on my mood at the time, the pain I felt or how humiliating it was. I have often laughed at others when they slipped or fell, or slipped and fell, and in some cases then found myself helping them through their ordeal while trying to control my laughter. The humor can give way quickly to concern, but most of the time, I find seeing someone falling down pretty funny.

I was in Chicago many years ago, down in the Financial District. In my suit, tie, fine leather shoes, wool overcoat, very “business-like”. I was with two co-workers and attending a meeting with our companies Senior Vice President of Sales, our President of Operations, and several others at our corporate headquarters. If you are familiar with Chicago, the building is on Wacker street right by the river, a beautiful building with several glass revolving doors that open to the wide sidewalk. If you are familiar with Chicago in the winter, you will know the “The Windy City” can also be the “snowy, icy, freezing-ass-bitter-cold, windy fucking city”, as it was this day of our meeting. I’ve seen people literally leaning into the wind to walk there on several occasions. I’ve seen umbrellas flipped inside out and ripped from the carrier’s hands. One gust snatched away four different people’s umbrellas and a hat all at once, and that was funny, even funnier, as the guy who had lost his hat was now frantically clutching his askew toupee, more on his forehead and face really than on his head now. None of them fell down though.

On this particular shitty day, on our arrival to the meeting it was the “snowy, freezing-ass-bitter-cold, windy-fucking-city” without the “icy”.  We arrived by cab and quickly scurried from cab door, to revolving door, into the building’s warmth very quickly. The meeting was held, blah, blah, blah, we got what we came for and an hour and a half later were ready to go and celebrate our accomplishment with a big Chicago steak and a few cocktails. The place we were heading was only a few blocks down Wacker street. I don’t recall the name of the place, but it had a great restaurant that by evening became a jazz club. We had planned a fly in, go to meeting, fly out sameday, but as is often the case with winter flights in and out of Chicago’s O’Hare airport (and especially flights between Denver’s DIA and O’Hare in winter) our evening flight was delayed, three hours. Which actually meant that was probably going to get pushed as the weather got worse and there was no way we were going to head to O’Hare and end up spending a night in that god-awful place packed with a bazillion cranked travelers, so we did the proactive thing and got a hotel for the night in the city.

OK, meeting mission accomplished, bundled up and happy to head off to an early dinner, drinks and a night in “Chi-Town” , with a hotel room warm and awaiting when through. As we got off the escalator in the lobby and headed toward the wall of revolving doors, through the glass windows you could see people inching along, heads down braving the nasty weather. Through the revolving door we go, me leading the way and stepping out, “oh shit it’s a sheet of fucking ice, ahhhhhh” comes from me as I begin my slide aided by my fine leather soles and a wind against my back that feels like a big burley Chicago south-side guy is pushing me. I catch a brief fleeting glimpse of my buddies not stepping out of the revolving door behind me, but continuing their spin through the revolving door back into the lobby. I also realized the everyone else on this twelve foot wide sideway ice rink,  are all at the very edge of the sidewalk, single file, right up against the wall of the building using it to steady themselves. Nice of them to let me step through onto this icy runway! Now I had blown/slid about three feet down the walk without ever moving my feet and I’m heading at an angle away from the building, down the walk, and toward the street curb and gutter, and I’m gaining speed!  My coat like a sail on my personal ice racer and I’m now maybe ten feet from the door I had just stepped from, everyone watching, nobody reaching out to help save my ass, and I see smiles on some faces! As I head faster down the walk and now have a line toward the gutter and know I am seriously going to eat it any second, I go into a crouch, kinda like when as a kid we’d “speed skate” at the roller-skating rink. I’m still on my feet in a couched little ball and as I get close to the gutter I grab for a parking meter pole. That stops my arms and upper body, but feet and legs go whipping around the pole, a 180 and then I am flat on my back half in the gutter twenty five feet from the door and people are laughing, cheering and a few now managing to cross the icy abyss and are lending a hand to help me up. My “friends” show up too, laughing, and inform me they went out a south door where the sidewalk has been treated. They tell me that was the greatest balancing act they’ve ever seen and that people inside were rooting me on to stay up! A real good time for all the inside on-lookers - “How far do you think he’ll slide? Look at him go. Geezus he’s go’n down any second now. Twenty bucks says he takes a header at the curb.” And so on.

Needless to say this was the story told and retold all night long between us, and to pretty much anyone who would listen, including a guy who had come into the bar later, he recognized me as he’d been one of the “inside-on-lookers”, He bought us a round of drinks and his telling to his band of buddies in that great Chii-caah-goh accent was the highlight of the night. The steak was good, the Jazz terrific, and to this day I smile and chuckle about that trip – well not a trip and fall, but that slip and fall on the trip to The SIFABCWFC (“snowy, icy, freezing-ass-bitter-cold, windy fucking city”). 

Chicago, my kinda town!

First, a short poem for today, before the snow came this evening -

Warm sun Cold day –

The air is cold

A slight breeze pulls at my hair as it blows past

Clouds part

The sun radiates a beam upon me

My eyes close as I lift my chin to face it

Red and then yellow white penetrates into my soul

Thought yields to feeling in the warm bright embrace

I am engulfed in the warmth of a cold winter day sun

                                                                        JRC 2.8.12

Second - a poem at the end of this blog, but it is preceeded with a certain sadness and questioning.

Time and Passing -

This entry isn’t of the usual humor based blog post you may be hoping for or used to from me. That’s because not everything in life is funny and we all have times of struggle, sadness and sorrow. It is good to do our best to find humor and laugh in tough times and to find comfort and healing in the power of laughter, but too, it is important to the healing process and healthy to acknowledge and accept our emotions of sadness, fear, anxiety and anger. This past Saturday I attended the funeral of a co-worker. We were not close in the sense of good friendships or regular working situations. In fact he was a person I knew, would say hello to, occasionally discuss a work related matter, but I didn’t see him daily. He had battled illness and you could see the toll it took on him physically and emotionally. He died before he reached his fortieth birthday and he left three teen boys. He was a single father.

I went to the funeral service to pay my respects primarily to those boys and to help me to have perspective on the delicate nature of life, and all of life’s challenges. None of us knows when our time will come and that fact slips past us as we go about our daily routines and live the ups and downs of what our situation, our life, brings at each turn. In some cases the end of one’s life comes slowly and the awareness of an on-going illness may give a certain opportunity to “plan” for the end of life, but still that finality of death leaves a void and has an effect that no plan can truly account for. In other cases, death comes without warning and it has an abruptness that somehow leaves a broader void in those who mourn the loss.

Dwight’s message to us, to me, “life is short, treasure the moment”. It was a reminder, for me, since at a point in our lives when we first experience a death and begin to question mortality and experience that first loss, whether it be human or other, that loss, that void begs questions that can’t really be answered and the void has an emotional uniqueness for each us that is very individual.

Here is a personal reflection, a poem that came to me this week –

Time Passing –

I am dying

And it is a good thing

Years have passed and more hopefully will

But I am dying

At this moment it is not immediate or eminent

But I am dying

I strive to enjoy the moment, love and be loved

But I am dying

I look toward the future, reflect on the past, live and let live, do my best

But I am dying

Though I write about it here I do not dwell on it and I am not afraid

But I am dying

I am happy to be living the ups and downs along this life journey, yet it is not forever

As I am dying

I hope that my love sows seeds as I travel, that they grow fruitfully and abundant

As I am dying

That at my last breath, my love and souls spirit will go on and be with you

As I am dying

Know my love for you is true

As I am dying

I will be at peace

Dying

JRC  2.12

May peace be with you.

How deep are puddles

 * Authors note: self imposed warning here to help avoid any possible censorship and blocking of my internet blog, this post contains some language that may be considered offensive.

I though, asserting my constitutional right of true free speech, as a person, and individual registered voter, not a "corporation" with money to spew forth in mockery of the amendment, have written a story to entertain and humor the reader, in hopes that it will lift their spirit, touch their soul, impassion their heart and be a self-evident example of the value of true free speech.

Peace -

Now on with the story -

Ø  Puddles –

When you step in a puddle and the water comes up to your ankle, is that still a “puddle” or does it become a “hole full of water”? And is a pothole only in a road – what about a parking lot? Paved = potholes and puddles, unpaved = a regular hole and puddles? Or is “pothole” reserved for any surface damaged by vehicular wear? I guess I think a puddle is more a low spot, a dip if you will, in the surface. You can have a puddle on a paved parking lot or an unpaved parking lot. You can have a puddle on a grass surface, a dirt surface, a concrete surface, a wooden surface, metal surface, even hard packed sand surface, any where there has either been enough saturation or an impermeable (nice word, huh?) surface.  No matter what it’s called, stepping in one when you are not prepared to combat the moisture and/or do not expect the depth of the spot to be adverse to your situation – it really, really sucks!

Our parking lot at work (and a lot of others around here for that matter) look like fucking mine fields! These parking lots are beat to shit. Sign of the economic times I guess, nobody can afford to fix their lots and the weather takes its toll fast. When it rains, and it rains here a good deal, in fact as a point of reference, we moved to Lancaster PA from the beautiful Northwest, Seattle WA where everyone knows it rains. But, as a matter of Famers Almanac fact – this area of PA, the fertile Susquehanna Valley gets approximately 45.17 inches of rain a year, Seattle gets 37.07 – this is on average over the last thirty years. The difference, and it’s a big one, is when it rains here it really rains, you might get an inch or more rain in a hour or so, where in Seattle it might “rain” all day and barely measure a half inch so you don’t get puddles really, damp surfaces, moisture and a few wet spots, but not a bunch of puddles. Here, when it rains there are usually puddles in the first 15 minutes! 

So here, you are going to either navigate puddles or step in something and get wet, unless you have on some sort of waterproof footwear. Women, girls, you I believe have the advantage of those neat designer print rubber boots, those with flowers, and leopard prints, or a neat tartan plaid, or poke-a-dots, or solid yellow, red, blue, pink or black. You can wear these incorporated into your work or casual look and be just fine. A fashion choice. Guys on the other hand, don’t for the most part fit this style model – most, I said, and no judgment here, some guys can pull that off because they have that hip fashion style, a la Nautica, American Eagle, Ralph Lauren. An L.L.Bean boot maybe, but those aren’t all rubber up past your ankle. Also, women will not think twice about a change of footwear especially in inclement weather, guys on the other had (idiots) just can’t get their head around that concept. But a fashionable waterproof boot choice, that isn’t for most guys and certainly not around here. If I wore something like that I’d look like a dumb-ass, old-man-schlep with “girl” boots on! So instead, like a dumb-ass schlep, I just wear my business dress shoes, or whatever, and try to negotiate the terrain as not to step in a spot deeper than one quarter inch.

So picture this, imagine one of those aerial photos of the Florida marshes, or the African plains after a torrential downpour, can you picture those few and sporadic dry spots of high ground? Imagine it. Now picture our parking lot in that manner, little islands of high ground, and winding irregular ridges of area connecting safe passage through the mass of low, expansive, wet, menacing puddles. Now picture me (having of course to park at the far fucking end of this obstacle course of pavement because there is never anything up front), me, carrying my computer bag (too bulky and over stuffed with crap I really don’t need to lug around), me, carrying a travel cup of coffee, and me if I remembered it, carrying an umbrella, wandering and weaving about on a maze-like path for probably a quarter fucking mile trying to avoid stepping in a puddle, pothole or canyon of water in my stupid low-soled, non-waterproof, business dress shoes. What an idiot! If it wasn’t so pathetic it would be funny! But at the time I’m not laughing, I’m pissed that the parking lot is a minefield of water hazards. It’s Nature’s fault, and the Property Managers fault, that I’m getting soaked and now have wet feet and I’m only half way to the door. Hell, car-door to office-door of eighty yards in a straight walk. I’ve been schlepping about for a minute and a half, only half way there, when  I finally decide fuck it, and just walk straight to the door stepping in every puddle, hole, pond, lake, I can, just stomping through them, splashing about, kicking water every which way.  And now I find myself smiling! Not smiling like an idiot smiling, but smiling because I remember what fun I used to have as a kid going to school and intentionally stepping and jumping in every puddle I could, arriving a wet, dripping, happy mess, and happy at the fun of it.

But I’m not an elementary school kid anymore, I’m a “business man” (ha) – I think I’m gonna go get a pair of those cool boots, maybe the green ones with the little frog face and ears at the toe and I’m gonna enjoy what comes, hell or high water!

Aution Hunters has nothing on me

Ø  Stuff from Auctions –

This area of the country has Auctions. There are garage sales, yard sales, flea markets, community craft, collectible and antique sales, “tag” sales, roadside stand sales, Estate Sales, I have even seen “peddlers” with fruit and vegetables loaded neatly in an old truck bed with bushel baskets of items. But I’m talking about Auctions at farms and homes where an Auctioneer hosts and calls the pieces for sale one item and “lot” at a time. There’s generally a main tent area and auctioneer stand, with a table in front where items next up are staged and picked up and shown by various assistants. They and others are spotters that catch the bids, some subtle gestures, some loud annoying bellows, from the crowd.

The folks attending often come with folding chairs, and boxes, some have magnifying glasses and maybe a jewelers loupe, some with a thermos of coffee, some with blankets when it’s cold, umbrellas when it rains, fans when it’s hot. Most are veterans and pros in this Auction game, but too, most are locals, relatives, friends, towns people, not many people from outside the region. Several really know their stuff and have a keen eye from real bargains, true collectibles, valuable jewelry and antiques. Others are savvy buyers for their second hand stores, antique stores and their flea market booths. This last bunch are a curious lot, to me they’re a wee bit odd, they often have one of those creepy older Dodge or Ford Econoline panel vans with no windows except in front and at the rear, with the rear ones usually covered inside by newspaper, or cardboard, or if these folks are top notch; curtains (mismatched, stained, with fruit, flowers or some other odd pattern). These folks are relentless bidders, generally if they are in, they stay in as a matter of pride or just plain stubbornness, but they do have their limit too. They’ll bid an item or tray of things up fast and without a flinch then just stop.

I go mostly for fun and to see what sells for how much. I’ll maybe have something in mind that I’m looking for that works perfectly well “used” than to go buy something new. (My part in the “reuse, recycle” mantra). For instance, I might have a notion to find a brass or similar floor lamp that would look good in a sunroom. So I go to a few auctions and see if they have any. Sometimes they do, and if it’s cool and I like it, I bid until I get it or I feel it’s not a price I want to pay. So in those cases you might go to several saless before you find and then actually get something. An interesting delayed satisfaction thing going on here. And while you’re there at these auctions other random stuff is there and just might catch your eye, not that you really needed or wanted it, or there’s those “trays” or “Lots” of items at times seemingly piled together that become interesting because nobody really knows what is all there but maybe one thing of marginal interest, and as an “odd lot” it’s bidding is low or non-existent. Things can sell for a dollar, often, or if it doesn’t, stuff is added. Like, two hand rakes, a garden spray nozzle and a painted flower pot – no bids, “let’s throw in that bird bath and flag pole” and it goes for a dollar. Or, a random box of various mugs and juice glasses, no bid, “let’s add that tray of kitchen utensils” (and on that tray of odd forks, spoons, knives of stainless steel, meat tenderizing hammer, kitchen thermometer, wooden spoons, is a 1950s Mouli metal hand shredder with four grating/cutting disks, in the original but very badly damage box – this is the item of interest). “who’ll give me five” – nobody – “four, three, then two, OK one dollar” and a hand goes up. “I have a dollar can I get two. I have two now three, yep, four, now five, six, seven in back, eight, nine do I hear ten, I have ten, eleven, now twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, can I get twenty, OK I’ll take sixteen, now seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, I have twenty. See now, we could have skipped all that before and just gone to twenty. Do I have twenty five, I have twenty five, twenty five, do I have twenty six, twenty five now six? Twenty fiiiiiive, now six? Sold for twenty five dollars to number 473. Thanks Jimmy”. All Jimmy wanted was that Mouli, because he saw one sell the other day on EBay for $75.

I enjoyed that Auction, though it did get cold and wet, and I didn't have a chair, or umbrella, or good hat or coat for that matter, because I'm not a Pro, and I wasn't prepared, so I kinda froze my ass off really, but I enjoyed it. So, that day my amateur bidding and keen I got me: two white wicker lounge chairs with new Pottery Barn brand seat cushions for $16, a framed world atlas picture (for my nautical theme basement bar, yeah! ) for a dollar, a pruning lopper and hedge shears for a dollar, a 36” antique framed beveled mirror for, you guessed it, a dollar, a mixed “Lot” of kitchen gadgets for yes, just one dollar - you seeing a trend here, I'm a kind of bottom feeder in thier Aution world. For my dollar, that box “lot” had a neat old handcrank can opener, wooden spoons, a candy thermometer, some ugly old pot holders, a box of colored toothpicks, a “church key” bottle opener, a yucky old rubber spatula, two raggedy looking silver plated (but barely) serving forks, a bookmark, a few magnets, a pill bottle of safety pins, a new in the package toilet brush, and a four disk vintage tin Mouli shredder! I saw it piled with the other stuff and the "new" box was beat to shit, so you had to actually look to see what it was -- no dought "Jimmy" didn't or this Lot would have gon for way more than a buck, and not to me!

So the other day, I’m in the kitchen with my wife and we're making dinner (Mexican, yum!), and I've used my way-cool Mouli to shred cheese, and shred lettuce, and sliver onions, so cool, and I'm stirring chile with one of those neat old wooden spoons. It has a carved and painted zebra on top of the handle, and my wife asks “where did that come from?” and I proudly say “from that $1 box of gadgets from the auction the other week”. “I don’t think that’s a spoon, it’s shaped kinda weird at the bottom” she said. “I think it’s just worn down some, but it doesn’t really scoop and hold anything. More like a . . . I don’t know” I shrugged.  “A shoe horn” she said raising an eyebrow with a slight smirk on her face. “No, it’s a spoon or spatula or something. A spoon-ula, or a spatul-oon, or something in between. It was in all that kitchen stuff” I replied with confidence.

“It is a shoe horn! And by the way, also in that “kitchen gadget box” was the toilet brush, dear” came from her mouth matter of factly.

Touche. I am pretty sure she’s right, it is a shoe horn. But it looks cool and it stirred the chile just fine!

So I’m now calling it my “Spatu-loon-horn”, and thinking about a marketing plan and an infomercial for late night TV.

Next big thing I’m tell’n ya, big seller, big seller, just like "the amazing Mouli" !

A Cat's Tale - about stairs and other stuff

Ø  It’s a long way up – The Tenth Step – a Cat tale

Our cat has a favorite step on the large staircase in our home. It is the Tenth step. He resides there quite often and if you are on your way up, or down, and he has position on the Tenth step, he has just that, position. He fully expects, near demands by his very presence there, that you step over, or just beside him on the remainder of the tread. You dare not disturb him, for if you do, you will get a glare, a scowl, a piercing hex of a narrowed-eye sure to have some lurking future malice linked to it for a time unbeknownst to you. But when your time comes in a slip, a stub, or trip, or stumble over nothing but air, he’ll be there too watching with a little smirk, like the Cheshire Cat with his grin “ha, gotcha” written on his face.

He’s not really a big cat by weight, but he has lot of hair. A Persian. A “long-haired” cat, it is not fur. So he takes up space and it’s hard to tell where body is, and what is just hair. Persians have that wide face and head, “smushed” in, like a cartoon cat after running headlong and smashing into a wall (smushed, being the past tense of smashed – not “smush” in the Jersey Shore context). We noticed after only a couple days in this house that he preferred that Tenth step.

There are eighteen total steps from the living room entry floor all the way to the second floor hallway. As a matter of fact if you start in our basement and just count the stair steps (not walking steps in between) from there to the floor in our full attic, there are forty-five stairs, and I know because I have taken things stored either in the attic or in the basement from one remote location to the other several times. Now why we have stuff, and why I’m taking stuff, and why we store stuff in those places . . . well, another time maybe. There are 14 steps from basement den to the kitchen, 18 steps from the living room to second floor hallway, 13 steps (oooohh spookey) from the second floor up into the attic (and those top three are angled steps so kinda tricky, and it’s narrow too). For that matter the stairway to the basement is actually more narrow than those to the attic. And the top “step” at the doorway from the kitchen is not really so much a step per se, but a 1” rise from the top staircase step onto the hardwood kitchen flooring. You have to count it as a step though, because you do have to take that step up or down. If you step between the two onto that 1” variance of surface you will fall on your ass going down (bad cause you’ll keep sliding and banging on the walls like you’re in a trash shoot) or you’ll fall on your face into the kitchen going up. I know, I’ve done both. I actually fall “up” stairs way more than down, what the hell? Falling up stairs makes you just look like a dumbass, an uncoordinated stooge. Falling down is, um, more natural or something. People might laugh at you either way, but more often they’ll laugh when you fall up, than down. People help you “up” when you fall down. People don’t help you “down” when you fall up, but if they’re not laughing at you too hard they might help you “up” when you fall down going up!  (Made myself laugh at that – LOL).

The Cat. The Tenth Step. Now I believe cats do have a certain psychic sense and connective ability with a dimension we humanoids can’t quite grasp. We can at times kinda sense it, or for a very brief moment connect, but it’s so fast we blow it off as our imagination or some other hokey bullshit. And you have every right to call me crazy and think I’m full of shit, that’s cool by me, think and believe what you want, but it is part of this story, so read on believer or non-believer the story is about to get better.

When we first were moving into this cool old house, being smart family cat owners, we knew to bring the cat over when it was quiet, when there wasn’t anything in it yet, just the house so if the cat got a bit freaked out for any reason you weren’t looking for days under and around furniture or boxes or whatever. So we get to the house and let the cat out of his cozy carrier and he slowly, curiously, but with more confidence than caution, begins his discovery. We watch him awhile as he pokes around sniffing, peaking around corners, crossing in and out of rooms, jumping up onto shelves and counters. He seems pretty cool with it, unusually cool with it. Like he’s at “home” cool with it. Now if you know cats that is kinda weird, unexpected really from our human perspective. He went about like he owned the place and lived here all his life (or for one, or many of his nine lives). So him seeming content and happy and in cool discovery mode we all go on about what we were doing; measuring, figuring places to put furniture, taking pictures, girls debating and negotiating over the bedrooms, inside, outside, upstairs and down. All the while the cat is doing his thing one minute in a room then not, in the hallway, then on top of a windowsill, all about. After an couple hours we’re getting ready to go.

“Where’s the kitty?” and the calling for him and looking for him begins. And it continues. There is no furniture or boxes to hide in or under. We look in closets. We look in cabinets. We look in every room. We look all around outside. We look everywhere on every floor, in every room, in drawers of built in cabinets. We look in the clothes dryer, we look in the washer, even in the fridge! We begin walking around the neighborhood calling for him. Some neighbors even begin the search, he’s an indoor cat, so the thought of him outside is not good and now its dark. The girls were still in the house still looking. When we get back, none of us have seen or can find him and its now been over an hour. We look all over the house for like the fifth time, everywhere and nothing. We’re sure he slipped outside. Two of us get into a car and start a slow drive beyond a few block search radius, one sits in the back yard and calmly calls for him, one walks around the outside of the house and around the block calling. Thirty minutes later, we all gather, and no luck. Devastated, we go inside to gather purses, jackets, tape measure and to turn off lights, and there calm as can be on the tenth step is our cat, Bijan.

To this day we have no idea where he could have been in that empty house, or whether there is some other Outer Limits tenth dimension on that tenth step, some wormhole, or Narnia doorway, or whether he was simply hiding somewhere really well and he just likes hanging out on that step. But I can tell you this, it may just be that it's a good place to rest since it’s a little more than halfway up the eighteen total steps and I have found myself slowing, even stopping there at number Ten to take a brief break before the rest of the climb, especially if I started in the basement!

One of those days - A Christmas Story?

Ø  I knew I was in for one of those days – A Christmas Story

It started with a stubbed pinkie-toe on the bedpost, in the dark, of a very early and cold morning. I held back the welling profanity at my lips because everyone else was still asleep. A few crippled steps later and I step in some wet slimy stuff (that turns out be dog puke I find out once I turn a light on and go back to check) and now I do swear and storm into the bathroom. I clean up after the pet, get myself ready for the rest of the day totally aware of these signs and expecting more to come. Today is my Karma payback day no fucking doubt about it. So on it goes: take the dogs out for their morning break and the screen door slams me in the elbow “funny bone”, it wasn’t in the least bit funny, and I swear again startling the dogs now a tangle in their leashes around my feet. It’s freezing outside (and still dark) and they seem to take forever to pee. Back inside and during breakfast, I drop the sugar spoon into my Cream-o-wheat and it splashes onto my work shirt. The smoke alarm begins to scream at an ear piercing level damn near rendering me immobile wincing in some weird mind-melding torture, and its going off because I’m burning my toast! Seems I must have bumped the setting knob from my perfect toast setting of 3-dash all the way to 7-dash-dash (as high as the thing goes – why? Why a 7 dash dash setting at all, hell it burns at 5-dash-dash, what the world is the reason for those other extreme settings – arson maybe?) By the time I get around to eating, every things cold – and its cold outside, and dark, because it’s still early. Now I’m wondering, actually thinking carefully and seriously, if this is some omen and I should just take my ass back to bed. Really, what next, was it even safe to try to go to work? But was it safe to stay home? Shit can happen anywhere, anytime. I decide to head to work. Everything is hunky-dory until I’m almost there. When, CRUNCH ! I get rear ended sitting at the last stoplight before getting to our work parking lot (that parking lot is a freaking hazard too, but that’s another story for a different day). I pull over and the car behind me follows along and I can see there’s some damage to the headlight and hood of this little black car. Then I notice the big white decal or painting on the hood – the Batman logo! The windows of the little car are darkened and I can’t see in, but I’m fuming and pissed, but kind of amused at the little “Batmobile” sitting there crunched. I’m already late and now this, what a screwed up day, how much more can I take, I’m sure to be dead before the end of it at this rate! I get out and still no sign of movement inside the other car, and now I’m getting even more steamed because I have to go back to this guy? He’s not getting out? WTF? I take a glance at my rear bumper and it is fine, a big somewhat rusty, heavy steel solid bumper. A bumper that is a real bumper. A bumper that stops shit. A hit me at your own risk bumper. Just as I’m getting to his hood, checking out his poor busted headlight, smashed plastic grill, dented hood crumpled just to the edge of the Batman logo, the door begins to open slowly and the loud Christmas music is pouring out and a large hand grabs the top of the door jam, and out comes a very rotund, apologizing but smiling, happy round faced black dude wearing a Santa suit ! Now I am smiling and assuring him there is nothing at all wrong with my car, apologizing to him for what has happened, refusing to let him call in the accident since there is no damage to my car and he’s worried about a ticket and his insurance. He tells me he’s on his way to Walmart, he explains to tend the Salvation Army kettle and ring his bell for the day. As I help him back into his car and he’s telling me “bless you” and “Merry Christmas”, I realize this is one of the coolest moments and experiences I’ve had and how my day had just become “one of those days”, one I’ll never forget and one I’ll tell about the rest of my life! 

Holy Holly Berries Batman, Santa is a jolly black dude that drives a Hyundai Batmobile!

Ho Ho Ho, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays !

Would you like some Toast?

Toast, not so simple –

You don’t generally give it much thought I expect, Toast. But really there can be a lot to think about with simple Toast. What type of bread? The extent of “toasting” you want – light to dark? What do you put on it or what don’t you put on it? Are you having your Toast to dip it into something? If so, what do you want to dip it into? Do you eat the crust or not eat the crust? How many pieces do you want to have? Do you cut it? If you cut it, how do you cut it? You see what I mean – it’s just not that simple, Toast. I like the word “toast”. It has a nice sound to it for me . . . “toast”. It invokes comfort and warmth, good feelings (but mind you cold, hard or soggy Toast can change my feeling really damned quickly about the Toast as a substance, but not the sound of the word, that always makes me a little happy, “toast”). Try it , just say the word a few times. See, a little happy thought, a wee break of a smile on your mug, eh?

And a little digression here – a “toast” (verb, not noun) given in memory, celebration or cheer of someone or something has a good will emphasis – happiness or adoration. And let’s not get side-tracked by “toast” in the verbal form of the destructive – “my laptop is so toasted”, or that of impairment – “that was a great party, we we’re so toasted” – this one may bring an aching frown or a big smile!

Back to the “Toast” you eat. Comforting, warm, happy-place Toast, and back to the topic of how the Toast thing isn’t a simple choice.

First, the bread choice, Wheat, White, Whole Wheat, Multi-grain, Raisin, Sourdough, Rye –Light or Dark or swirl, Pumpernickel (with Caraway seeds), Sunflower Seed, Flax Seed, and I could go on and on because there a hundreds of “breads”, but those listed above are for the most part the kind of daily consumption breads we get for home use or have choices of when you get Toast at a restaurant. And how many slices are you going to have? Two because your toaster has two slots, four because your toaster has four slots (or two anyway because even though you have a four slot toaster it’s still your choice, or one piece for that matter. If you get four slices at a restaurant do you eat all of them because they came with it, or leave some, or just order the number of slices you want? Lots to think about, no?

Second, the toastie-ness desired. Very light, all the way to very dark, burnt really. And the consistency of the bread at a done-ness level. See, very light and the bread is still soft and pliable, but at a certain point, depending on the bread of course and the toastie-ness level you like, bread gets hard, and that point is in the middle somewhere depending on the bread, because you can have hard toast that is dark, but not crispy black burnt dark. Consider this, have you looked and actually noted the number of “darkness” choices you have on your toaster? Mine has numbers 1-7, but there are hash marks in between, so I have twenty-five selection points! For toastie-ness level ! Two - Five, 25! Really? You can’t choose, it takes trial and error to find that selection point just right for you, and it probably won’t be the same for other users, so you have to remember your spot, or mark the mark with your own personal mark – follow me?

Before we get to step three, I have to ask, is it just me or does everyone “jump”, even just a little bit, when the toast pops up (given of course you use a pop-up kind of toaster and not the toaster oven, just sit there and look pretty toaster. And is a PopTart toasted in a lay there flat not gonna move till you grab it toaster oven really a “pop” tart?). I always get a little startled, a little flinch, even though I’m anticipating the “pop” . Whether I’m looking at it or even looking away, the “pop” makes me twitch, more so if I’m looking at it though,  because then it also has the popping up appearance and not just the popping up sound, like a toast Jack-in-the –box! (may have to do a blog about Jack-in-the –boxes’ someday too – those with clowns finda freak me out).

Third, what do I put on it. Butter (Salted or Unsalted. Whipped or Stick. Low fat – again, REALLY, low fat butter, getthefuckouttahere). Margarine (historical note: 1998 was the 125^th year anniversary for the margarine U.S. Patent), or maybe cream cheese, or yogurt, or peanut butter, or Nutella (I LOVE this stuff – but not on toast, on a crescent roll or tortilla). Some people of course want their toast “dry”, so nothing on it.

Next, what else do you put on it, or not. Jelly, jam, if so what flavor? Marmalade, apple butter, some other fruit spread? Cheese? When does it become a sandwich if you have bread, butter, a fruit spread and something else, like cheese, or ham, or bacon, etc – then it’s a toasted sandwich, right? If you’re going to dip it, say into an eggyolk, or a soup for lunch or dinner, or into a hummus for an appetizer, do you also need to decide to cut it? Cut it corner to corner, in half top to bottom, in quarters, in strips, into cubes to put gravy over it?

So you see, any way you slice it, or not, Toast is not a simple no brainer decision. I’m hungry for Toast, now what to do, hmmmm?