MY NEW BLOG!
|Posted by Val Enders on July 19, 2012 at 2:50 AM|
"We're Goin' Campin'.... Ain't Life Grand!" Well, the two of us bought a used camper, and last weekend we went to a beautiful Provincial Park to give the wheels a test run. The hubby took Friday off from work, and we set off with renewed hope about bonding with nature. It's been at least thirty years since our last camping adventures with the kiddies, and now, at our age we must be losing our minds to give it a try again. So, this was going to be the maiden voyage, and for the week prior to departure, we cleaned, shopped and generally busted a hump getting things in order. The weather wasn't looking good but we were determined to go regardless. After a slight snag with the signal lights, we pushed off. It had been awhile since the last trip, so we had to familiarize ourselves with everything camping, and believe me, we found out pretty darn fast how expensive equipment was. We hadnt even pulled out of the driveway, but had already invested a wad of dough into gear and trailer. Camping stores pretty much gouge the crap out of you. We saved ourselves a bundle of cash buying a second hand camper that was in pretty good condition. The rest of this article can be read at http://northernstar-online.com where you will be able to access the photographs that accompany this story as well. For some reason I cannot post them on my blog today.
|Posted by Val Enders on July 19, 2012 at 2:35 AM|
It was late when we went to bed on Thursday, but I wasn’t tired so I picked up my book and snuggled down for a read. On this particular night all was nice and quiet in the neighborhood, and the soft breeze ruffled the curtains bringing with it the fragrance of lilacs. I could hear a soft humming in the distance, which seemed to increase in volume as it came closer to me. CLOSER TO ME!!!!! That was no soft humming! That was a loud buzzing! No it wasn’t a mosquito, it was much worse. I lay paralyzed as I watched it come closer to me, trying to attack like some crazed maniac, but it was as elusive and agile as that flying feather on one of those cat thingee toys. I do not exaggerate when I tell you that this creature was ginormous. Huge to the nth degree is an understatement. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you guessed correctly.
It was a fly! Not just any fly. It was a mutant! I expected Jeff Goldblum to pop out any moment and say hello. I lay watching as it frantically buzzed around the bedroom, crashing into walls and the mirrors like a crazed drunken sailor, who had not yet gotten his land legs. Normally I am not bothered by something like a piddley fly, but this one was huge, and blue. Ever since I had watched a National Geographic TV special on the “fly”, I was totally grossed out just remembering it’s life cycle, never mind the close-ups of its germy feet and bulging eyeballs. The bedroom door was open, and I hoped it would fly out and exhaust itself somewhere in the house. I imagined finding its worn out corpse on the kitchen floor, and then unceremoniously disposing of it in the garbage. It was apparent however, that this monster had no such plans.
It flew into our bathroom, and I debated jumping up and shutting the door. Darn! That fly must be a mind reader as well. No sooner was the thought in my head, when that thing came shooting out of there like it had been shot out of a circus cannon. I dodged..... It dive bombed.... I made a counter move by evading him..... It tried hiding in the covers.....and I responded by swatting with my book, which was totally ineffective. “Fly” now settled himself on top of the wardrobe, a place I couldn’t reach, so I decided to get reinforcements. I knew that my book would never take this enemy down. That fly only had many eyes for me. This was not a fair fight, as I only had two eyes and they were unreliable in the “sight” department.
I took the opportunity to make a dash for the kitchen where I kept the most useless fly swatter on the face of the earth..... a plastic hand, neon pink, that a blind person could see coming. What chance did I have against the many sharp eyes of that fly?
I returned to the bedroom loaded for bear.. er... I mean fly. Oh, he was cunning all right, and shifty as the day is long. He had hidden himself well, I assumed in order to regroup, and then to begin the next assault. I felt like a thief, sneaking around in my own bedroom, waiting to pounce the moment that fly made its hiding place known. After ten minutes of this activity, I let my guard down, headed back to bed and pulled up the covers. Hubby was oblivious to this raging battle of mayhem, and kept snoring and wheezing in slumber land
. I continued reading while keeping one eye on the lookout for “fly”. Sure as “Bob’s your Uncle” he appeared and proceeded to bombard me with his germy, creepy fly body. He bounced off my head (I could imagine where his filthy fly feet had been, ewwwwwwwww....) and I panicked and started swinging wildly with my swatter. Eureka!! I connected with a hit that sent him sailing into the wild blue yonder.
I trampolined out of the bed looking for his carcass, wanting to make sure he wasn’t going to rise from the dead during the night and launch another assault. Sure ‘nuff, his body lay lifeless on the hardwood floor at the foot of the bed. I gazed down at his body, feeling a little bit of shame that I had ended his existence. Then his leg moved, and I whacked that fly into next Tuesday. He was nothing but a grease spot now, and I whipped him off the floor with a Kleenex and threw it in the dust bin. Yes people, I am now a killer with no remorse. I turned out the light and crawled into bed. I could rest easy now. At least until the next time.
|Posted by Val Enders on June 14, 2012 at 12:00 PM|
I’m All Tapped Out!
Yesterday, was the windup dance recital for my two youngest grandkids, ages six and nine. Naturally, Hubby and I were looking forward to seeing them dance their little hearts out, but we weren’t green, and we knew what torture was coming down the turnpike. You see, we had been this route before, and looking at the faces of those unsuspecting new parents, all I could feel was pity. They had no idea how the next six hours would affect them.
Scanning the lobby I notice all the cute little kids dressed in their costumes. Everything from poodles to lions and anything circus related, since that was the theme for the year. I’m thinking how sweet the kids look, and how haggard the parents are starting to appear. Yup, those parents had been there since nine a.m. and now it was after one-thirty. They had been through the dress rehearsal, and the daunting task of getting those costumes on and off, numerous times, if their child happened to be in more than one number. Nerves were starting to wear thin. The Lobby was a sea of people, all who have shelled out a pretty good chunk of change for a ticket to see their future dance star hit the stage. We managed to find the rest of the family, and we huddled together shoulder to shoulder, waiting to be able to move into the theatre and find our seats. Six adults and three kids standing in a tight knit circle when suddenly the conversation stopped and we all looked at each other questioningly. Wafting through the crowd came an unmistakeable odor. Ewwwwwwwwwww. Someone near us had dropped a bomb. Our faces showed our distress, and collectively we shuffled along like a giant spider trying to get out of the contaminated smell zone. My eyes were watering by now. Thank goodness the theatre doors were opening, and that crowd rushed in like they were buying Bridal dresses at the Macy’s once- a- year discount sale.
Hubby and I had the two seats next to the aisle, a strategic place, since the plan was to escape right after the kiddies did their performances. We thought we had it made. Then I opened the program. OH MY GAWD!!!!!... I was going to take my last breath in this place! Five pages filled with dances depicting the circus!! Groan. Okay... don’t panic Val, just take a look-see and find out what number the kids are in. Hooray! Jillian is in the second group, and then the seventh. Not bad. Twenty seven groups follow her and I am sure Ben is in there somewhere. My eyeballs are frantically scanning the program and then I see his name. Yahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa... Geez Louise ... that kid isn’t up until after the intermission. The second recital has forty four groups... wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.... and he is number twenty four, and you guessed it, number forty one. I’m openly sobbing now. I’ve only been sitting for ten minutes in this cramped seat and I know the blood flow to my toes has been cut off already. I could lose a leg to gangrene darn it!
The lights dim, and on goes the show. Like most grandparents we practically have a stroke when Jill comes on, looking so sweet in her red and white striped outfit. She’s dancing really beautifully. Too bad it’s a short performance and two minutes later it’s over. We smile at each other, Hubby and I, and our hearts swell with pride, like everyone else whose child was in that group. She’s back on in the seventh act and once again we are on the edge of our seats, watching her be the future ballerina star, looking positively angelic in her flowing blue dress.... for a minute and a half. Sigh. That was it for her.
Now we were trapped there for the next two hours, virtual hostages, waiting for the end of this gruelling show, watching kids whom we didn’t know and would never see again for as long as we lived. It’s torture. Sure they looked cute, but cute can’t carry that length of time. Besides, every kid in each group looked the same. Parents and Grandparents kept looking for the fruit of their loins, but all that fruit looked the same. Thank goodness for individuality in the real world. I’ll never complain of kids with red and blue hair again! (Well maybe just a little).
I’m brought out of my reverie by loud clapping as Intermission is announced. Praise be! We bolt out of our seats (those of us who can still move) and run for our lives. Hubby and I find ourselves in line at the bar; we need some liquid courage for the second recital, since we have to sit through another forty groups before we get to see our progeny make his debut. I’m thinking that if we want to make terrorists confess, they should be subjected to a few hours of this kind of stuff. I know by now I’d be crying like a baby, and ready to spill the beans on my best friend, just to make it go away. Nevertheless, it’s back into the House of Horrors for the second recital.
Curtains up and the torment continues. Every once in awhile they throw us a bone and a group that can really dance comes on making the crowd go insane clapping. Meanwhile we are on count down, looking at the program in the dim light, judging how many are left, before we see our little dancer strut his stuff.
Next up is a contemporary dance, and it’s a weird one. The dancers are great, but the music is freaky and I swear the singer on the recorded music is singing “Call me a douche bag.” No electronic equipment is allowed, but looking over the balcony I see cell phones lit up like twinkling stars. It’s obvious that the Dads’ are entertaining themselves with games of their own. Women would never think of doing that... we’d just suffer in silence. Stupid us.
Finally, after four hours of this madness, we are waiting with bated breath for Ben to step on stage. Music starts, we’re hanging on the edge of our seats, gripping onto our purses and programs, and out they come. Yessiree bob.... I said they, kids, seventeen of them, but I only have eyes for Ben. That’s because if I take my eyes off him to see what the others are doing I’ll never find him. Those kids are cavorting around (he’s dressed in a Strongman suit) doing their hip hop to the tune of “Cant Touch This”. Too soon he’s done and won’t be seen again for another sixteen groups, but no matter since the pride factor has made it all worth while.
On it goes, another flood of dancers in circus costumes, impressing relatives with their agility and dance moves. Against all odds, I am still in that seat for Ben’s last performance. Five little kids take the stage, the music swells, and lights come up. He’s dressed in a black pair of pants, sparkly shirt, top hat, and of course tap shoes. Three little boys, and two little girls start tapping those shoes to the beat of “Join the Circus”. I’m watching like I’ve never seen a dancer in my life. A smile pasted on my face that would be there for weeks, because you see, he was actually tap dancing! All those lessons, all that driving to classes, all the practicing was finally paying off. He was dancing, and we were filled with a joy that only a Grandparent can feel at a time like this. Suddenly those hours of torture evaporated into thin air, and all we cared about was our two little grandkids, who knew that we were sitting out front watching them perform. “What?”
“What do you mean there’s another half hour of speeches and awards?” I’m seriously thinking of laying charges of being forcefully held against my will, cruel and unusual punishment, and torture! ( My bum was numb!) Next time I’m packing a lunch, and yes , there will be a next time folks...because that’s what Grandparents do. Check out the kids in this video and you’ll be smiling all day... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YBPcoI4OE9Y
|Posted by Val Enders on May 29, 2012 at 11:20 PM|
We’re a desperate lot, us women. Spring is finally here, and we are more than ready for the annual planting season. We are like the wildebeests of Africa, who brave the crocodiles and fast flowing Zambezi River, in order to get to the lush spring lands. It’s been so long that we’ve seen anything green, we’re positively ecstatic as the rhubarb makes its appearance, and we practically scream with joy and hyperventalate at the first sign of a flowering tulip.
I’m lucky this year. I’ve got my “foot in the door” so to speak, and I have already gotten a major start on the growing season. The terrific thing is I didn’t have to do a thing. I yanked open my pantry door the other day, and reeled back in surprise. Holy dipping Dina! What a shock! Tired of waiting for spring, the tatters had made the decision to “let ‘er rip”, and had started the reproduction process early. They had been there awhile, I must admit, but I kid you not, those potato shoots had fought their way right through the plastic bag, and were starting to get intimate with the cereal boxes on the third shelf. Those sprouts, gnarly and pasty white, were twisting and turning, and they could give Jack’s beanstalk some serious competition if they ever escaped. That bag of onions must have gotten the “full steam ahead” signal from the spuds, and they had commenced rallying the troops for an invasion. Gangly green onion tops were climbing out of their predecessors, ready to compete with the tatees and soup cans for territory in the pantry which, by the way, was starting to look like the “Little Shop of Horrors”.
The refrigerator was already a greenhouse gone amok. The garlic bulbs were forcing long green appendages out of the crisper, encouraging them to further their quest for world dominance. I debated planting those tubers in a pot on the windowsill, but the last time I did that, we had so many fungus gnats we couldn’t see each other across the table. In the bottom drawer, the veggies were ahead of garden schedule. The carrots had lanky leaves protruding out the large end, and the roots were grasping out for a toe hold, in order to branch out in search of a suitable habitat. Those carrots belonged in the circus, since they could bend in every direction without as much as a crack. They were quite the contortionists. I stared at the inside of the fridge, and decided on my best course of action. I closed the door gently, reached for my purse, and headed out to the car. If I hurried, I could still make the plant sale at the Big Greenhouse. Those petunias were calling my name and I already had a head start on the veggie end of things.
Now I only wish I could grow plants as good outside, as I can in the pantry and refrigerator.
|Posted by Val Enders on May 29, 2012 at 11:10 PM|
I am fighting a case of the flu. I can't be certain that it actually is the flu, but since I have the internet, I have researched my symptoms, and now I feel qualified to self diagnose. I have ruled out pregnancy and diphtheria. Someone, (I won't mention any names, but it starts with the letter Hubby), was sick last week, and he was gung ho to share his malady with me. His Doctor prescribed antibiotics for him, but I decided to avoid the clinic. It's a hot bed of disease and sick people, and I can't take any chances in my weakened state. Self medicating is my only option, and with my choice of meds, (copious amounts of hot tea and honey with plenty of rum), I plan to kick the living daylights out of this thing.
Our anniversary was last week, and this year, after his bout with the bug, hubby managed to pass on the gift that just keeps on giving, a dose of the scoots to go along with my nausea and sweats. We have been married forty three years, and that gift is right up there with the red trap door underwear I got for Christmas one year. This is not a good time for me to be ill, not that there ever is a good time. We have a company function on Saturday, and I can see myself jumping up from the table every five minutes to run to the biffy. It’s a good way to impress the boss. I can only hope that there is no line up, and I pray that I won’t get the cubicle with an empty paper roll. I could be trapped there for days.
I hate to turn down a free meal, and since eating is my secondary hobby, I’d hate to miss out on fine food that is served by someone without pimples. Just thinking of going, gives me another bout of the chills and sweats. It’s worse than having a hot flash. At least those I could predict to a certain degree. They’d show up just before bed and hang around all night for a game of “kick the covers”. I’m sweating now like someone who is being grilled by the FBI, and I’m trembling like they are going to pull the switch any moment. I’d better regroup and come up with another attack plan, or I’ll be home watching “Dateline” while everyone else is eating Herb Roasted Chicken and Risotto. I’ve decided that I am going to take those antibiotics that the surgeon prescribed for me after my gall bladder operation. They were given to me in case of an infection. Cindy thinks that they won’t do any good, since I probably have a virus, and not an infection, and I will only succeed in starting some super bug that will take over the world. Right now I’m willing to take that chance.
So, for now it's a dose of dubious antibiotics, and another day of laying on the couch in a comatose state, watching reruns of some old western movie. I just occurred to me that when I get the flu, no one seems to take the credit, but when other people get it, we all know who they get it from. ME, of course! So, if you get the flu next week, it’s probably from reading this.
|Posted by Val Enders on April 26, 2012 at 11:35 AM|
The common phrase “Necessity is the Mother of Invention” should unquestionably be read as “Mother is the inventor, due to the necessity.” I’m not an expert on who invented what, but I do know that mothers and wives probably inspired more than a few nifty do-dads and gadgets. For example,
I can visualize the scene that ended with the creation of one of Hubby’s favorite tools … It went something like this…
Massachusetts, 1810: Looking out the cabin door, Tabitha Babbitt sees John and Joseph working in the hot sun cutting wood. They seem to be enjoying themselves, pushing the Pitt saw back and forth. However, the work seems to be going much too slow to suit her, and although the men are sweating, they are plainly not making much progress. Time and energy were being wasted. “I wish they would hurry up. There’s a lot of things on this ‘Saturday To Do’ list to do, and they’re taking their sweet time about getting that wood cut. There’s got to be a better way.”
So, what does Tabatha do? She attaches a circular saw blade to her spinning wheel, so each rotation of the wheel makes a cut, which saves energy and produces results. Voila! The tool eventually becomes known as the circular saw, and it ends up in today’s sawmills (and hubby’s garage). That’s how women think, and it resulted in them sellng a lot of circular saws.
Men, on the other hand, are different animals.
Here’s another invention, only this time an invention made by men. I imagine the scenario went something like this:
Toronto, Ontario, 1930:
“Hey Ed! Guess what I found laying in the discard pile? It’s a rubber pouch made from the last order we did, and wouldn’t ya know it, when I accidentally stepped on it, it made a fart noise! Get the other employees together. Let’s see if we can maybe make a few bucks out of this.” Sure enough, all the guys thought it was hilarious, so Ed fine tuned and tweaked the rubber fluffer manufacturer, which became the highly successful innovation we know today, as the “Whoopee Cushion.”
That’s how men think. It resulted in them selling a heck of lot more whoopee cushions, and whoopee cushions get a lot more laughs than circular saws.
Thanks to the employees at JEM Rubber Co. who invented Whoopee Cushions. After all these years, we still enjoy the effects of them today
|Posted by Val Enders on April 26, 2012 at 11:30 AM|
The common phrase “Necessity is the Mother of Invention” should unquestionably be read as “Mother is the inventor, due to the necessity.” I’m not an expert on who invented what, but I do know that mothers and wives probably inspired more than a few nifty do-dads and gadgets. For example, I can visualize the scene that ended with the creation of one of Hubby’s favorite tools … It went something like this… Massachusetts, 1810: Looking out the cabin door, Tabitha Babbittsees John and Joseph working in the hot sun cutting wood. They seem to be enjoying themselves, pushing the Pitt saw back and forth. However, the work seems to be going much too slow to suit her, and although the men are sweating, they are plainly not making much progress. Time and energy were being wasted. “I wish they would hurry up. There’s a lot of things on this ‘Saturday To Do’ list to do, and they’re taking their sweet time about getting that wood cut. There’s got to be a better way.” So, what does Tabatha do? She attaches a circular saw blade to her spinning wheel, so each rotation of the wheel makes a cut, which saves energy and produces results. Voila! The tool eventually becomes known as the circular saw, and it ends up in today’s sawmills (and hubby’s garage). That’s how women think, and it resulted in them sellng a lot of circular saws. Men, on the other hand, are different animals. Here’s another invention, only this time an invention made by men. I imagine the scenario went something like this: Toronto, Ontario, 1930: “Hey Ed! Guess what I found laying in the discard pile? It’s a rubber pouch made from the last order we did, and wouldn’t ya know it, when I accidentally stepped on it, it made a fart noise! Get the other employees together. Let’s see if we can maybe make a few bucks out of this.” Sure enough, all the guys thought it was hilarious, so Ed fine tuned and tweaked the rubber fluffer manufacturer, which became the highly successful innovation we know today, as the “Whoopee Cushion.” That’s how men think. It resulted in them selling a heck of lot more whoopee cushions, and whoopee cushions get a lot more laughs than circular saws. [Thanks to the employees at JEM Rubber Co. who invented Whoopee Cushions. After all these years, we still enjoy the effects of them today]
|Posted by Val Enders on April 26, 2012 at 11:25 AM|
This Does Not Compute! Today I finally blew my composure. I yelled, cajoled, cried and threatened, all to no avail. The response I got was a blank look, and silence. I even resorted to desk pounding and finger pointing, but nothing seemed to make a difference. It was treating me like a stranger, a nobody, unwanted, even though we have been living together for several years. Oh sure, we have battles, and we usually kiss and makeup, but this morning was the breaking point. It started out like every other morning, except as soon as I sat down with my coffee, it started giving me grief. Yes, I am talking about my live in, my right arm, my source of all things important, my computer. Messages started almost immediately. “You have scan results. Fifty items detected. Do you want to fix now?” “Sure, why not?” I thought to myself. “It can’t take terribly long.” I casually hit the repair button, blissfully unaware of the chaos that awaited me. The screen started flashing and the progress bar started creeping along. It seems to stop, and to be stuck there. What the heck is going on? At this rate, I’ll be an old lady (well, older woman), by the time this job is done. I quickly try to halt the scan. It’s not happening. The next thing that I read is, “This event cannot be stopped now”. I use my entire arsenal of computer skills, banging every delete and F key on the keyboard, like they were a “whack a mole” game. At last, I’m rewarded with a closed program and it returns to my desktop. “Whew.” That was a close call. Now I can get back to work. Opening up an email program, I’m short circuited by the following statement, “Please, enter the twenty six digit product key”. Oh, no, it’s still toying with my emotions, and I am not amused. Looking everywhere, from the bottom of the computer to the attic, I finally recognize that there is no product key anywhere. I quickly switch to my default email. Problem solved. Not! What now for Pete’s sake? On the screen I see the following, “This computer has performed an illegal operation and will be shut down”. Cripes, you’d think that it was an unlicensed doctor performing extensive organ removal in a back room. I’m starting to lose my control for sure now. Our love /hate relationship goes on. I hate my computer, and it loves to drive me nuts. For the next twenty minutes, we quarrel back and forth. Computer: Can’t find the printer. Me: “It’s right here on my desk!” Computer: A critical error has occurred. Please consult your system administrator. Me: “I am the administrator for heavens sake, and I have no clue what’s going on!” Computer: Norton blocked an attack by Fake App Attack. Me: “If it was a fake, why block it?” Finally weary of playing “beat me up verbally”, my computer has a change of heart, and starts to forgive and forget. I’m able to open my email and respond to a message from a client. I hit the spell check. Everything comes up correct, so I hit the send button. I ’d mentioned in the email that I couldn’t travel to the client’s home, as it was inconvenient for me. I was horrified to see, that in the message I’d already sent my computer had helpfully changed the phrase, and now it read, “I cannot come to your home as I am incontinent.” At least the spelling was correct. All I could hope for now, was that my client would think it meant I was in Europe. Fat chance there. (Sigh) Computer: one…..Val: zero.
|Posted by Val Enders on April 26, 2012 at 11:15 AM|
We were noticing a small leak from the toilet yesterday, so we are fixing it before it gets to be a major reno. I should mention that the hubby is repairing it, as I am not allowed to be around him when there are issues of a “plumbing” nature.
I hear him in the kitchen rummaging through my baking cupboard. “What are you looking for?” I ask. “I’m looking for a pan.” he answers. It suddenly occurs to me why he needs a pan, so I pipe up and declare, “If you think you are using my good baking pans to drain the toilet water in, you had better think again.” (I know how this guy thinks.)
“I don’t know why I can’t use them,” he replies. “It’s just clean water.” “I don’t care,” I fire back. “You’re not using my good baking pans! Find something else!”
He shuts the cupboard door and heads off downstairs. A few minutes later I hear him coming up to begin the job. Meanwhile, I’m thinking to myself that this is not going to be a good thing. Hubby is a guy who can usually do anything. However, plumbing and electrical are definitely not his forte. Thinking it’s time to see what’s going on, I open the bathroom door and see he’s pouring toilet water into the sink from my fruit bowl. I just shake my head. I’ll never look at that bowl the same. Thank goodness it wasn’t expensive, because clean water or not, it’s gone to the dump. I’m exiled, once again to the studio, as quote, “my advice is not appreciated”, unquote.
I no sooner park my butt, when I hear yelling from the bathroom. “GET ME A TOWEL…OR A RAG, OR ANYTHING!” he shouts. As his outburst of expletives assaults my eardrums, I vault out of my chair as if I’ve been shot out of a cannon. Rushing to the linen closet, I grab an old towel and practically rupture a kidney getting into the bathroom. “Never mind, I found something,” he says in a matter of fact way. There, on the floor is my best towel, sopping wet and crumpled up like some old newspaper. I switch it for the ratty towel, drop the wet towel in the laundry, and zip my lips. Leaving him there on his hands and knees, (a tempting shoe target), I return to my studio.
It isn’t five minutes later, and he’s standing in the doorway.
“I’m going downtown. I need a wax ring for the toilet,” he announces. My only response is, “Um hum, I figured you would need one. Remember, I suggested we should get one yesterday when we were at Home Depot?” He’s giving me a not so nice stare. “Do we need to revisit your advice right now, or do you want this toilet fixed?” was his ticked off response. In two seconds, he’s out the door.
Twenty minutes later he returns, and with the passing of another hour, the seal is in, the toilet is on, and Hubby is tightening up the last bolt. I’m congratulating him on the awesome job he’s done, when one last twist from the wrench snaps the last bolt. “SplinK”. Grrr… That’s what you get for over confidence. He unleashes a few colorful phrases on his way to the toolbox for reinforcements. It’s now become a matter of principle. Hubby against the world, or rather in this case, against the toilet. I make my exit.
Sometime later, I hear an unexpected loud “FLUSH”! I rush into the bathroom, and we both stand there holding our breath. The seconds tick by. We scour the area for leaks, as if we were the ground crew checking the space shuttle before its maiden launch. One small poopy for man, one giant leak for mankind! Hallelujah! No Leaks! This is better than winning the lottery, and we start doing our happy dance. I know the card ladies will be glad they don’t have to drop their drawers on the lawn come Tuesday.
Thank you Hubby, and Sir Thomas Crapper! Now, won’t it be great when we get the toilet to stop flushing itself?
|Posted by Val Enders on April 26, 2012 at 11:05 AM|
No More Smelly Bowling Shoes for Mii!
Last week, the two of us decided to go bowling, but when we looked outside and saw how miserable the weather was, we changed our minds in a hurry. Heading into the living room, we fired up the TV, then loaded up the Wii Sports disc to play a frame or two of bowling.
Soon, the ‘Mii’s’ took their places behind the foul line, and readied themselves for a little friendly competition. Real bowling alley sounds came from the TV. By gosh, I was starting to get into the mood of the game! The Mii’s in the next lane were throwing strikes and spares as if the game were going to be declared illegal, and I felt the competitive gene start to roar to life.
I was up first, so I checked out my alter ego on the screen. Grey hair, Buddy Holly glasses, a bright green bowling shirt. Yes sir, the spitting image of me as seen through the eyes of my grandson, who’d created all the Mii’s for this game. Hubby didn’t fare much better In the looks department, with his bright blonde hair, beard and pink flowered shirt.
The game was enjoyable, and we were neck and neck for the first few frames. Then things started to go south for me. I started to miss pins, and couldn’t buy a spare or strike. The only redeeming factor now, was the fact that I didn’t have to wear those smelly, rented shoes. Hubby, on the other hand, was well on his way to a perfect game.
“You know what your problem is?” Hubby asked. “Oh, oh, here it comes!” I thought to myself. “No, what’s my problem? ” I responded, slightly miffed. “You’re twisting your wrist just when you release the ball,” he answers.
From that moment on, my game gets worse, and his advice comes faster than a loaded Uzi. “Move over to the left”, “don’t lift your hand too high”, “try putting a spin on it”, “just relax, you’re trying too hard”, he continues to spout off. On and on he goes, and suddenly, this game is getting to be too much like the real deal. The Mii’s on the sidelines are cheering him on, whooping and clapping each time he gets a strike, and loudly declaring “nice spare!” each time he lands one. When I tossed my imaginary ball into the gutter, every Mii in the house let’s out a loud “Awwwwwwwwwww”, and my confidence took nose dives everytime I listened to the “pity” clap from the crowd.
Heading into the ninth frame, the game took a three hundred and sixty degree turn. Now, strangely, I can do no wrong. I finally have my Mojo back. Strike! Strike! Spare! Hubby, on the other hand, is throwing wildly and becoming fast friends with the three/ten split. I’m closing the gap between us, and if I can just finish with three strikes in a row, I may just be able to pull this off! The pressure’s on. I wind up my last throw like a well oiled clock, and I let it fly.
Faster than a rocket, the controller fires out of my hand. I can only hold my breath as it travels toward the large screen TV. I closed my eyes in anticipation of the “crash” that I expected to hear.
“THUNK”. I peeked through my fingers, and was relieved to see the TV still intact. The controller had only grazed the edge of the screen, luckily for me. It was a close game, but I lost. I learned one thing though. When I’m winning, Hubby lets me know that ‘it’s just luck’. However, when he’s winning, that of course, ‘is pure skill and talent’! Groan.