The Paws that Refreshes

I feel like I’ve been going into withdrawal since I have not yet mastered the art of functioning 24 hours a day, without a modicum of sleep, even if that modicum is chock full of work dreams.  Hence, no creative writing or blog for far too long for me.

Writing?  More writing than I know what to do with but I have to confess not the kind of writing I enjoy sharing with all of you.  Business writing, doncha know.  Dry as dirt financial data, projections.  The stuff nightmares are made of, especially for the mathematically challenged. 

I feel like someone turned on the tap for my ‘business brain’ and now it’s flooded.

Running here, running there, I’m learning the Greater Barrie area far quicker and better than I ever thought possible.  I don’t think I even need to use my GPS so much anymore but I do bring it with me and program it, just so I can hear Jill say, “turn left in 1 miles”, or my favourite, “in 300 feet make a U-turn”.  She keeps me company.

I’m so far behind in watching ‘my shows’, I’m not even sure that the Survivors have reached the island yet.   

Don’t touch the espresso-whatever-possessed-me-coloured furniture or the speckled brown kitchen transaction counter top.  If I can’t see fingerpaw smudges in the dust, I won’t feel compelled to clean.

Pinky (Tuscadero), the baby, feels so neglected ‘cause I’m not taking sofa siestas much anymore and she misses the knee curl. So much so, that she jumps up on my naked thighs when I’m using the throne and then digs in her freshly honed (on the back of the sofa, no less) needles, trying to keep her balance.  She really doesn’t understand the screech of agony I emit but startled, adds to the carnage by leaping off, her back claws digging in deep for better leverage, trying for the gold medal in long distance leaping.  It’s a good thing I love her.

 

Carpe Diem - seize the day…seize the moment, but bloody hell, don’t let the hood latch on your car seize.  Not only does it cost about $200.00 to fix but it costs an entire afternoon of homework time to get it fixed, ‘cause… the young man with the purple Mohawk, tats inked over every square inch of visible derma,  has just informed me that he drained all the oil out of my car (I was getting it changed), BEFORE he popped the hood latch.  Go figure but you won’t go far, ‘cause there’s not a drop of oil left in the car.

Meals?  You mean home-made, real meals?  Fuhgeddaboudit.  Add the good ole’ Lipton chicken noodle soup standby (ready in 5 minutes), to the sandwich you made for lunch but were too busy to eat and call it supper. 

One good thing about not having time to prepare proper meals, is, at least, that grocery shopping only has to be done when you’re totally out of convenience food (unless you have demanding family members staging a mutiny for better living conditions).  Of course, it would help to have the carefully crafted grocery list in your hand when you’re actually at the store but it’s still gracing the top right-hand corner of the fridge, affixed with the cheerful, yellow, smiley face magnet. 

 

Stopped in the middle of the ketchup aisle, I screw up my face in an effort to remember what in the hell I have on the damn list.  A concerned citizen stops to ask if I’m okay or should she have the “girl” call the paramedics.  I move on.

Oh and what about housework?  Make sure you have multiple sets of utensils and dinnerware.  And at least a double sink.  You can always buy one of those plastic sinks people buy when they go camping.  It’ll hold the overflow from the dishwasher until someone remembers to turn it on and the clean stuff will magically waft its way to its rightful place in the kitchen cupboards and drawers… I have some land in Florida you might want to check out…

Turn that accidental oops, dropping a recently replenished mega size plastic ‘glass’ of ice water on the ceramic tile, into the ideal opportunity to wash the kitchen floor, scrubbing especially hard in the places you recently started sticking to. 

All in all, it’s been three weeks of total intensity, with more weeks to go than I care to count.  One of the saving graces and probably the reason that I’m still slightly sane, is my daily walk with Sofie, The Wonder Dog, who waits for me with quiet anticipation.  I throw out the magic word “walkies” and start making my way toward the front door.  Then, as if drawn by a dark force, I sit down at my computer to finish ‘just one more sentence’.  Audibly sighing, or as I refer to it, giving me the dog version of a Jewish guilt trip, she lies down by the front door and patiently waits until my “one more sentence” is done. 

About twenty minutes later I’m instantly forgiven when I finally make it to the front door and open it.  Sofie leaps to her feet, feathery tail helicoptering at high velocity, then bounces down the walkway to the street, waiting for me to catch up.  I take a few deep breaths of the fresh spring evening and laugh at Sofie as she grins at me and woofs, “Hurry up!”  One of life’s simple pleasures to treasure and truly the paws which refreshes my weary sole. 

      

                                     *© 2013      Sofie, The Wonder Dog

  © 2015 Phyllis Mahon aka Undercover Sandycove-r - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

HOOP JUMPING IS AN ART FORM

It never ceases to amaze me how we can totally give ourselves heart attacks over nothing much.  And it seems that we really only start to do that to ourselves as we hit the mid-50s range.  Does dry mouth and thumping heart sound familiar when you think you’ve lost your car keys and now, how will you get home?  How many times have you turned your purse upside down looking for your car keys?  Doesn’t matter that you’re in a public place, i.e. drug store, supermarket or the doctor’s office. Your entire life is laid bare in the 10 seconds or so that it takes to shake everything out, only to find that dam key chain looped over your ring finger. 
 
And what about tearing our cupboards apart and all of our drawers, looking for a dumb receipt so that we can take a $1.98 something back to Wal-Mart?  This takes about 3 – 4 hours.  Do the math and figure out how much that just cost you per hour.  Oh, and let’s keep in mind what  gasoline costs these days - about $1.30 per litre (roughly $5.00 a gallon) - so even just the drive to Wal-Mart is probly gonna cost you more than the something you’re returning.  Oh, and what about ‘that call’ you’ve been waiting for – just seeing their name show up on call display is enough to feel a double-time flutter.

It really freaks me out to recognize these things that I do these days and I’m really scared about the Wal-Mart receipt thing, ‘cause when I start doing that, I figure that I’m just about ready for that retirement home that someone’s going stick me in when they figure I’m ‘passed it’.

But, sigh, I’m off topic already and I haven’t even really started.  The reason for the title of this piece, HOOP JUMPING IS AN ART FORM, actually refers to an e-mail I got from Pearl, the coordinator of a business program to which I’m applying.  This is so I can learn how to be a business woman in the proper way, unlike the Delusional Moron, whom I’m not even sure graduated from high school, and conducts his business the same way he grew up, which is by the seat of his pants. This course is supposed to teach me how not to be like him.  Since I’m in my right mind (I can hear you sniggering, people), I figure I’ll have a huge head-start on not only opening my own business but having it grow and sustain me well into my golden years, unlike the Delusional Moron, who took a viable business and ran it into the ground in just over 3 short years.

In some ways I empathize and sympathize with the boy he had been and the deprivation he experienced, growing up with his single mother, someone I refer to as The Supreme Narcissist.   I remember a conversation she had with me a couple of years ago when she said, “I’m the best mother a son could have.”

“Why?” I ask.  I thought she would say something like, ‘Oh, because I was there every day when he got home from school’, or ‘I made sure he had a decent roof over his head and food on the table’.  But no, she said, “I took him to Australia when he was only nine years old.” 

My jaw hit the desk with a hollow sounding thump, and I scrutinize her heavily made up face, and can see that she is serious.  Her clown-like lips are pursed into a brilliant scarlet bow and the penciled-in eyebrows are halfway up her forehead, and perilously close to her thin hairline. Over-processed black hair, improbable on her almost 80 year old head, with parrot-green eye shadow caked in her wrinkled eyelids, together with the star burst design capillary potato nose complete the picture and provide a great example of ‘Rode hard and put away wet.’  But I digress…

So, although I feel that the Delusional Moron surely did me a dis-service by laying me off because he just couldn’t get it together, I do understand why he is the way he is, which is why I am literally writing my way to another chapter in my almost 60 years of life.   

In order to qualify for the program I’m applying to, I have to complete an 18 page Guide for Business Development.  Essentially, it’s a mini Business Plan and I believe, at some point going through this program, it actually transmogrifies into a genuine Business Plan, which you can take to the bank, if you need to, for a loan.  My hoop jumping lessons are about to begin!

HOOP #1 - First, you need to be referred to the program by an (un)employment expert, ‘cause there are a bunch of documents you need to provide.   

HOOP #2 - The expert needs to forward the information you’ve given her/him to the Business program coordinator and he/she needs to approve you.  

HOOPS #3, 4, 5 & 6 - You have to attend an info meeting, which is also when you are introduced to the Guide for Business Development for the first time.  Then three more 3-hour sessions, where you learn more about the program and how to fill out your mammoth Guide.   No, it’s not like you are given any answers.  You may ask questions in a general sense but you have to come up with acceptable responses, based on doing your homework.  This is especially true in the Market Research section, where you are expected to convince all governing bodies (and there are a few in the queue), that not only do you have a solid business idea but are able to prove that there’s enough demand for your type of business to keep you in business. You even have to talk to 5 business owners who are considered to be competitors, to get their take on how well/not so good/could be better they are doing.  You also have to be able to come up with a decent amount of seed money, which has to be a combo of cash and equity.  And no, you are not allowed to use the equity in your house; the rational being that if your business does go belly up, they don’t want to see you living in a cardboard box under a bridge ‘cause the bank took your house.     

HOOP #7 - Around the beginning of March, with bated breath, I submit my Guide for the first time.  It didn’t take Pearl long to get back to me, which, when I saw that it was her calling, had one of “those” heart attack (figuratively) moments.  We have a long discussion about the Market Research I have done and Pearl tells me I have to do it again, this time with competitors who have businesses which mirror my own more closely.  Sigh.  So, I start that part all over again, having a telephone conference with one woman, which lasted over 2 hours.   We hit if off and are slated to meet in person soon.   The others I meet face-to-face, one of whom is based in Orillia.  Oh well, it was a nice day for a drive and Sofie, The Wonder Dog, was able to come with me.  We had a delightful morning with Marjorie and her baby, one year old Barnabas.  Marjorie has had her home-based business for a number of years and we have an interesting chat about challenges, relationships and the joys of being your own boss.  It was worth the drive to Orillia, especially so when Barnabas gives me a sweet baby kiss.  The coffee was terrific too.

It takes me just about a week to meet with everyone, gathering their input and conveying it to the Guide in a cohesive manner, which would pass Pearl’s muster.  Another few restless nights and then, wonder of wonders, Pearl’s e-mail arrives in my in-box to say that my Guide has been accepted.  Yippee!

HOOP #8 - Now there are 3 more forms which need to be completed and we have to meet again so I could sign stuff, etc.  Then I wait for the appropriate government official to approve my Program Coordinator’s recommendation, which will take at least 2-4 weeks.   

HOOP #9 - I have keep on job hunting right up to the start of the program.

Based on what other program graduates have told me, there is still more HOOP jumping to come.  I can’t wait.  I’m getting so good at it, that I consider it an art form, you know, similar to training in karate or another Martial Art and when this program helps me to become a Successful Business Owner, I should be at least a little bit slimmer from all the exercise.  

P.S.  UPDATE:  Hoop jumping has paid off.  It’s official.  I have been accepted into the business program and will be starting soon.  I’m looking forward to using my ‘business brain’ again.  I think it’s been in cold storage for too long.

 

© 2015 Phyllis Mahon aka Undercoversandycove-r - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

BEACH DAY

Gray strands cover sky

Restless ocean waves foamy

Crabs run into hole

HAIKU - SPRING

                                                                SPRING
                                

Bananas go brown

Sun comes in window brightly

Breakfast cereal

STUFF GOING ON

Not much time these days to catch up on my writing.  I do have a new story in the works and have managed to write one whole paragraph.  Whoppee!!!

Until I have time to stop the merry-go-round, I thought I throw out some snippets and let you all know that I am still alive, so don't be looking to peel me out of a snowbank I may have fallen into walking Sofie The Wonder Dog.




 
UPDATE ON ‘SNOWED’  - Since I got no response from The Dragon Lady about my concerns regarding the non-clearing of my driveway, I decided to take it to court and have filed an Application for Hearing with the Landlord & Tenant Board.  SCA has been served with the paperwork and the hearing date is in March.  I’ll let y’all know how it turns out.  Strangely enough (but in a good way) my driveway has been cleared in a much more timely manner since SCA was served.  Coincidence?  Or maybe The Dragon Lady realizes that I’m not one of those ‘little old ladies’ who will just go away?  I actually served the Notice of Hearing on The Dragon Lady herself and now I know what someone who just sucked on a nice, juicy, fresh lemon looks like.
 

Next twist in my life - a few weeks ago, I finally made contact with The Boss, aka The Delusional Moron.  I had to drive to Markham (Steeles & Woodbine) to find him but there he was, larger than life, in the office, with his new live-in girlfriend, Sing, who, I came to find out, has been given my job.  Nice, huh?  So, all these months stringing me along by telling me he wants me back, all for naught.  Another life lesson learned, ladies – never   wait for a man, no matter for what.   

I just spent six months waiting to be called back to work and now the woman who’s sleeping with The Delusional Moron has my job.  He really should know better than to mix business with pleasure, since the previous persona of the business was owned by his then-common-law wife, aka my BFF.  After their relationship imploded, so did business decisions and my relationship with her - sorry about the pause, folks. 

There’s a commercial on TV which starts off with a ringing doorbell.  Every time Sofie hears it, she emerges from her ‘cave’ barking, in guard mode.  I actually have to go to the door and open it, to prove to her that there’s no one there.  She barks all the way, then goes outside, still woofing at her fiercest, finally figures out that she’s been duped, has a pee and darts back in, like the hounds from hell are on her heels. 

So, where was I?  Oh yes, the BFF and The Delusional Moron.  She stayed working for him for about four or five months after their personal relationship swirled down the porcelain throne and I have to say, that was not a good situation for anyone.  The business was suffering and so was I, caught in the middle of these feuding foes. Needless to say, my BFF is no longer my BFF, mostly because I made the mature decision to stay working for her soon-to-be former common-law husband.  She didn’t like that.  Oh well.  Such is life. 

Anyhoo, that brings me to writing  the next chapter in my life and becoming my own boss by starting up my own business.  At least then I know for sure  that The Boss is not delusional, although some of my family and friends might debate that.  I’m enrolling in a program which is going to teach me how to be a Entrepreneurial Sole Proprietor.  The application process is intense, with a very tight deadline for submission.  

So, if you don’t hear from me for a while, all the above is why.  Say goodnight, Gracie.

WEATHER GONE WACKY!

                                               

*

Methinks that Mother Nature sure must be pissed off at something this winter.

Sunday, January 20, 2013, 3:00 a.m. – house is still and quiet but through my open bedroom window, I can hear the wind wailing around the corners, reminding me of a long-drawn out E note on an alto sax in a bad jazz riff.  A rumble reaches my ears and I think, “Is that... thunder?”   Can’t be, it’s January.  We're supposed to have snow in January, not thunderstorms.

Deciding I was having a weird dream, I turn my back to the window and do some deep breathing - in through the nose, out through the mouth.  Restarting the music CD I had fallen asleep to some hours earlier, I focus on that instead of the noisy maelstrom outside, in what is normally a pool of peace.

Starting to relax again and on the verge of sleep, bass drum rolls rumble lazily through my window.  Again?  Thunder?  Is that really thunder?  Incredulous and exasperated, I fling the covers aside and jump out of bed to close the window.  I’m tired of being woken up by Mother Nature’s cacophony of bad music and of course, want to keep the rain out.  I fast-crank the window shut, shivering all the while.  Too bad I don’t have someone I can shove out the side of the bed and ask nicely (demand) that he close the window before we get soaked.  Well, there are good things and not-so-good-things about sleeping alone.  This is one of the not-so-good-things.

Rushing around to my side of the bed (Sofie, The Wonder Dog occupies the window side), I quickly crawl back in, quietly cursing the now-freezing sheets.  I guess most people keep the heat at a ‘normal’ level but since I like to sleep with the window open, I don’t see how that makes much sense in my house.  So, at night, the programmable thermostat is set to drop to brrrrrrrrrr(ish) 63° f (17° c).  The cats are glad that I set the gas fireplace remote to ‘Auto’ and it comes on when the living room temp drops to 68° f (20° c).  At least then, they won’t freeze to death (with their fur coats hmmmm).

Yanking the covers up around my ears and trying to tuck them around me as snugly as a cocoon, I dislodge one of the braver felines who seems to share my love of frigid. She mutters something rude and then settles down again, as I clutch the quilt up around my neck, to keep a cold draft out.  Pinky pushes herself down into the ‘v’ of my bent knees and starts kneading.  Her purr is much more soothing than the raucous chorus still reverberating outside.  Of course, her sharp little nails piecing the blanket aren’t.  I give the quilt a yank and she kinda goes flying a bit.  She runs out of my bedroom in a snit and I start my deep breathing again.
  

As I warm up a bit and my body stops shivering, I begin to relax and my mind goes back to growing up in Montreal.  It was a wonderful place back then – oh, about 50 or so years ago. Winter was my favourite season.  So many funny and wonderful memories flit into my tired mind. 
 
You know people here in Ontario bitch every time it snows – the near north (my new home town), south of 7 (Highway), The Town down under...  Every time it snows, the city, especially the south of 7 area, goes into panic mode and the city stalls.  You’re lucky if you can get to work in 2 or 3 hours and you only live 20 miles (30 km) away.  Oh and then getting home…But then, that's Toronto.  The MINUTE one white, fluffy, flake touches the ground in that city, traffic grinds to a halt and doesn't ever seem to get back to normal until June.
 
One time I remember the then-mayor of the GTA (Greater Toronto Area) calling out the military ‘cause Toronto got slapped with a lousy 3 feet (1 metre) of snow.  I still laugh when I remember good ol' Mel doing what he did.  The then-mayor delighted the rest of the country by drafting Canadian soldiers to wage war on snow drifts and free buried bus shelters.  Boy, it’s a good thing he was mayor in Toronto and not Montreal.  A smile curves my lips as I remember Mel’s Folly that January 4, 1999.
  
As I slip back to my childhood, a memory which always makes me laugh now, comes to mind - we are living on Walkley Avenue, in NDG.  It has been snowing for what seems like days and days.  My mom is so worried about my dad getting home from work safely and then, not being able to find a place to park.  My two sisters and I decide to brave the elements and dig out a parking spot on the street for him.  There was a space almost right in front of our row house and we bravely troop out into the swirling snow and gusting wind to wage war and liberate a parking spot. 
 
The three of us shovel furiously but it seems like we’re not making much of a dent in the drift that was taller than all of us.  The crap shoved up by the plow was almost more than we could move.  My mother keeps a close eye on us from the living room window, our baby sister clutching at her house dress to keep her balance, merrily waving away.  Boy, she was lucky that she was too little to hold a shovel. 

                                                   (Me & The Baby Sister)

Finally, finally, we got a space cleared that was just big enough for my father to get the car into.  Wearily, we start back to the house, no energy left to even lift our feet clear of the snow-clogged walkway.  We fall into the tiny foyer and start stripping off our Michelin-man type snowsuits and then the 4 or 5 layers we were wearing underneath.  To this day I wonder how we were able to bend any of our joints, dressed as we were.

Just as we were almost out of our snowsuits, we could hear our mother gasp and then start pounding on the window, where she was still standing, watching out for dad.  As one, we ran into the living room, asking what was wrong.  My mom turns around and yells that some S.O.B. (didn’t know what that meant for years), was parking in Daddy’s spot.  Not on your life, we yell.  Re-energized by the injustice of some schmuck stealing our hard-won parking spot, we pull up our snowsuits, throw on our boots and run back outside, brandishing our shovels. 

The S.O.B. has already made it about halfway to his house and was carefully ignoring the three shrieking banshees behind him.  O.K.  He wants to play dirty, we can play dirtier.  Up we stomp to the top of the five foot drift, which covers most of the sidewalk.  Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, we start kicking the snow bank we had just finished shoveling up, back down against the driver’s side, all the while yelling at the S.O.B. to come and move his car.  He stops walking and turns to see what we were doing.  Encouraged, we jump off the snow bank and run to the passenger side and start shoveling the plow crap up against that side of the car.  He realizes that we’re shoveling him in, and runs back.  We give a mighty cheer as he moves his car, all the while mouthing obscenities at the three sweet innocents.  We heave tired sighs, as we realize that now we have to shovel out the space again but at least it wasn’t as bad as the first time.

Another grumble intrudes on this childhood victory and I slide into memories of The Storm

of ’69…    

   

   Left to right – Me the 2^nd child, the third youngest, the oldest & the shortest, The Baby Sister)

*Image courtesy of by Vlado/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

SNOWED

*© Image by Undercover Sandy Cove-r 

It all started with the first substantial snowfall of the season, around Christmas 2012.  I don’t remember the exact date because I didn’t bother making a note of it.  Why would I?  Knowing what I do now, I should have.  But then again, as we all know, hindsight is 20/20.

It’s my first winter in South Park, SCA, and naïve about how things work around here, but only for a little while.  The first significant snowfall of the season starts on Wednesday night and I wake up to a winter wonderland on Thursday.
 
I head out to clear my sidewalk and shovel a pee/poop path on the lawn for the dog; she’s short and would disappear into the snow if I didn’t.  Other than taking care of my walkway, The Park takes care of the streets and parking pads, etc., which is one of the reasons I chose to buy here in Sandycove Acres.  I’d had enough of shoveling in our hearty Canadian winters where I used to live in The Town down under.

I spot the SCA plow guy, **Rylie, clearing the street around 8:30 a.m., and wave him down as he was scooting by my house, to ask how the snow clearing process works in SCA.  He explained about the order of clearance, which is:

1)  Parking lots and entrances first

2)  Main roads and courts second

3)  Recreation buildings and walkways next

4)  Shopping mall

5)  Driveways last

Makes sense.  Rylie told me that usually he’d be back around 10:00 a.m. to do the parking pads on my court so make sure to move my car to the street before then.  But, that day he had a seminar and it would be afternoon before he could come back.  Understandable.  

Time ticks by.  As the business day at SCA draws to a close, I become concerned that my parking pad would not be cleared and I want to move my car back to my parking spot.  At 3:30 p.m. I call the office.  The person who answers the phone mentions the seminar and advises that the guys were doing the best they can but I am assured that it would be done that day.  Judging by her off-hand manner and tone, I’m pretty sure that if I hadn’t called, my driveway would not have been cleared either that day or ever, for that matter.  Also, I was given to understand quitting time was 4:30, whether parking pads have been done or not.   

This was the start of an extraordinary saga to have my parking pad cleared without having to call the office each time it snows, which, these days, can be frequently.

A few days ago, Sunday, January 6/13, I was speaking to a Long-Time Resident and he filled me in on the way the snow clearance really works here in South Park.

“You know,” says he, “despite the cost of the snow clearance being included in our monthly fees, don’t expect it to be done if it’s a weekend or a holiday.” 

Huh?  Really?  What!  Does Mother Nature know?  Oh hey, quick, someone send her an e-mail and tell her she can only make it snow Monday through Friday, 8:00 a.m. - 3:00 p.m. and never on a holiday!  

I connect the dots in another way – the less SCA has to pay to clear, the more money they can put in their corporate pocket.  Are they skimping on snow clearance to save money?  Shouldn’t SCA be more concerned about the safety of its residents and their property and meeting its contractual obligations, according to its lengthy lease?  

One of the conditions of this lengthy lease is that SCA is to receive our monthly fees promptly on the first of every month but SCA seems to think that it is acceptable not to clear our parking pads in a due-diligent and timely fashion, even though, according to our lengthy lease, it is to be done.  Hmmm, I wonder, how would SCA react if the residents decide to cancel the pre-authorized debit for their monthly stipend and perhaps pay it 24 hours late and then only if SCA calls to find out why it hasn’t been paid?  If SCA expects the residents to adhere to the lease conditions, shouldn’t SCA be expected to keep their side of the bargain?

Funnily enough, holiday time off in SCA admin and the maintenance department between December 2012 and January 2013, seems to have included Monday, December 24/12.  Why?  It wasn’t a weekend or statutory holiday, so I’m confused as to why I had to call and call and call to get my driveway cleared, when it should have been done on Sunday, December the 23rd anyway.   When someone finally shows up on Monday, it is only by happenstance that I see the plow arrive.  I have a feeling that if I don’t react quickly, the plow would leave without doing my parking pad.  I throw my jacket on over my night shirt and rush out to move my car.

As I start back to my house, I see the driver staring at me, his body language shouting, “I’m not happy!”  The end result of this aggrieved employee’s efforts, whose salary is paid by me and all the other SCA residents, is that my parking pad is poorly cleaned and sod ripped up and it only took him about 20 seconds to accomplish this.  I see my Newbie neighbour run out to move his vehicle, so that his drive could be done.  Before he could even get into his car, the plow boots off down the street and vanishes around the corner.  My neighbour’s face radiates disbelief, as he trudges back into his home, shoulders drooping.   

Oh, and, what about this past Sunday, January 6/13?  Only the answering service was picking up calls (apparently the Sales office is  closed, at least on Sundays, for the next couple of months), and Operator 27 refuses to convey my two requests to the maintenance department to have my parking pad cleared, because as I’m told, “It’s not an emergency”.  Again, why should I have had to call?  It should have been done and it shouldn’t have to be considered an emergency.

Whether a holiday or weekend day, Mother Nature doesn’t discriminate and the essential service of clearing parking pads should not be delayed by 24 hours or more, or what seems to be the norm on Marlin Court, not done at all.   I'm starting to wonder if SCA is waiting for the damn white stuff to melt!  Or, heh, heh, heh, is waiting for the residents to get out there and shovel it themselves.

The Long-Time Resident warned me that it wouldn’t “do” to get on the wrong side of a certain person in Administration, aka **The Dragon Lady.  So, more than twenty-four hours after my parking pad should have been cleaned and hasn’t been, I have to, yes, once again, call the office. I have learned during my 58 years that if you do nothing or say nothing, nothing will be done. 

**Lily answers the phone, trots out the usual practiced pap and advises me that someone should be by today.  I must be a titch jaded 'cause I don’t believe word of it.  Over an hour later, my drive was still snow-clogged and my car has been parked on the street overnight – a big ‘NO NO’, apparently.  I call the office for the second time that day.  Once again, the same glib responses roll out of a well-trained Lily.    
I ask, “Why do I have to keep calling to get my drive cleaned after every snowfall?” 
Lily cheerily replies, “I don’t know.” 
“Then I would like to speak with someone who does know.”   

Lily couldn’t put me on hold fast enough.  I didn’t even get that ubiquitous, ‘One moment, please.’ She transfers me to that “certain someone” in Administration and we have a most interesting conversation.  After apprising this person of this never-ending problem, I mention that I have spoken to residents in North Park and they NEVER have a problem getting their parking pad done.  The response?  Oh, North Park is smaller than South Park.  Huh?  What does that have to do with the price of rice?  Aren’t resources being allocated properly?

According to The Dragon Lady, Administration does not get many complaints from other residents.  Really?  Firstly, I can only speak for myself and can’t comment on what other residents do or don’t do, and (B), I have observed that most older folk don’t want to rock the boat and won’t complain, especially if they’ve been warned about The Dragon Lady.  If they muster up their courage to make a complaint, it’s a good bet that they’ll be snowed by the identical, smoothly scripted spiel that they get from everyone who answers the phone.

The third excuse?  SCA’s being doing “it” this way for 40 years.  My response?  Maybe it’s time to look at how “it” is being done and re-evaluate the processes and procedures, because, in my opinion, the way ‘it’ is being done now,  is NOT WORKING.


*© Image copyright by Undercover Sandy Cove-r.  May only be reproduced/used with express, written consent of Undercover Sandy Cove-r

**Names have been changed

DON'T GO DOWN IN THE CELLAR...

Grandma always said, “Don’t go down in the cellar because…” and just let the sentence trickle away.   She would never finish that sentence. No matter how much my brother and I tried coaxing her, Grandma remained mute as to why we shouldn't/couldn’t go down in the basement.  

Our feeble attempts at blandishments, compliments and bribes were met with a vague smile, as her lazy eye twirled to the outer limits.  We would try and guess why we couldn’t go down in the basement; everything from something stolen, usually from an important archeological dig in some far off land or a mummified body of an old-time gangster buried in a shadowy corner.  The countless, small rooms formed a rabbit-warren-like maze, perfect for hiding all sorts of dark and mysterious secrets.

Every year, on our summer vacation to Grandma's remote hobby farm, built in the shadow of the Canadian Shield, our speculations grew wilder and  scarier.  The last summer when we were there, me, wise beyond my years at 10 and my baby brother, juvenile at 8,  tried again to pry the reason out of Grandma.  We were surprised and astounded when she said, “All right, all right already.  I’m tired of all your years trying to pry the answer out of me, I’ll tell you why you mustn’t go down in the cellar.”  We leaned forward in anticipation, two sets of bright blue googly eyes riveted on old Grams.  Grandma started talking, her wispy old voice barely audible, “You mustn’t go down in the cellar because…” All of a sudden, Grandma stopped speaking, gasped, sucked her breath in and didn't let it out again, then toppled out of her rocking chair, dead as a mackerel!

Image courtesy of by Witthaya Phonsawat/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net

                                                     

                                                        

TIME WARP

 

Funny how time flies when you’re on the computer.  Not funny ha, ha but funny weird, like you’re in another dimension or parallel universe where time is strangely warped.  Recently, I was on my way to bed around 10:15 p.m., when I remembered that I was recording something in my bedroom, which ended at 11:00 p.m.  Oh, poop, I won't be able to watch my VCR tape until recording is finished.  Yes, I know, VCRs are so passé but they’re paid for and I know how to program them.  I’m able to fall asleep on the sofa (one of my favourite things to do on The Killer Couch), wake up, take my VCR tape from the living room machine, pop it in the bedroom machine, go to bed and continue to watch the show I fell asleep watching – which I will then fall asleep watching again but, at least this time I’m in bed.

Shoot, I thought to myself, how will I be able to kill 45 minutes?   I’d already shut everything down in the living room and didn’t want to turn it all back on again, so I tidied up a bit, took some more stuff out to the blue box, which was already at the curb and then sat down at my computer, ostensibly to shut the thing down for the night.  Well, here it is, almost 10:55 and the 45 minutes are pretty much gone.  And it didn’t seem to take so long to pass by either.  Why is that, I ask myself? 

If I was sitting in the doctor’s waiting room or car dealership or standing in line at Service Ontario to get my license sticker renewed, the time would have dragged by like I was having a root canal.  Yet, sit down at the computer and start surfing or checking Facebook or writing and all of a sudden, it’s like 1:00 o’clock in the morning.  How does that happen?  Time Warp is how.  And there seems to be different kinds of Time Warps – one like the above (Computer Warp) and another type which happens when you're driving – Trip Time Warp. 

I experienced Trip Time Warp about a year or so ago when I was still living in The Town down under, and on my way to Montreal for a family Thanksgiving.  I decided to take the back roads via the North route and enjoy the spectacular fall foliage and set off bright and early, headed for Bancroft.  For those of you who don’t know where that is, it’s about 135 miles (220 km) northeast of where I used to live.  

According to Google maps, it takes about 3.5 hours to get there from The Town down under.  Curious about how long it would take to get to Bancroft from my new place here in South Park, SCA, I checked it out.  I thought that it would be much faster to get there from here, since I’m so much further north.  But, again according to Google maps, there’s only a 6 mile (13 km), 5 minute difference, which I don’t understand ‘cause I’m about 30 miles (49 km) more north than where I used to live.  And, again, according to Google maps, it should take 1 hour and 3 minutes to get here (South Park, SCA) from The Town down under.  So, now that I have confused this story with facts and gotten way off base, how come there’s so little a difference in miles and time to get to Bancroft from here?  Could this be another form of warp?

Anyhoo, as I continue making my way to just a little bit west of Montreal where my family lives, I stay on the back roads and enjoy the scenery.  It usually takes me about 12 hours to get to Montreal doing the rural routes but I find the drive so much more enjoyable.  I take my time and stop to stretch my legs and Sofie’s, and we have lots of walks in interesting places. 
  
One of my favourite places to stop at in Bancroft is The Princess Sodalite Mine Rock Shop.  It’s just a klick or two past Bancroft’s main drag and I find it fascinating.  You can actually go out back and mine for rocks.  Tailings are constantly transplanted there from the Princess Sodalite Mine, along with truckloads of materials from local mines, quarries, etc.  There’s a huge variety of rocks and minerals to hunt for and choose from. They supply collecting pails (bring your own rock hammer, if you wish) and charge so much per pound for your treasures.  If you decide to visit, remember to wear totally closed-in shoes!  That’s the only way you’ll be  allowed in the ‘mine’.

As the day starts to wane, I’m getting tired and just a little bit bored with the drive.  I start checking the clock more frequently but the time doesn’t seem to advance much.  I punch a more direct route into the GPS, including highway as an option, so my drive now takes me through highway hell, aka Ottawa, at rush hour.  I call my sister around 5:00 o’clock to let her know that I’m still alive and mostly on track and that according to the Garmin guru, I should be there around 6:30ish.  Well, for the next 50 miles (80 km) or so, it seems like the clock has gotten stuck at the 5:00ish point and I don’t seem to be getting much closer to the tiny town where my sister lives.  I pull over to the side of the road and telephone her again to let her know that calling out the National Guard is not necessary and hopefully, I’ll be there soon.  It feels like I’m stuck in a time warp.  I try to explain this feeling to my sister and she seems to understand.

I finally make it to my destination and get out of the car, stretching and bending to loosen up, ever so happy to be there and not in a moving car.  Sofie would be happier if we were home but is okay as long as she’s with me.

So now back to the present, it’s the witching hour, 12:00 o’clock midnight, and here I still sit, at the computer.  What happened to 10:55?

  

(Riff Raff) It's astounding
Time is fleeting
Madness takes it's toll...

(Magenta) Ahh...

(Riff Raff) But listen closely...

(Magenta) Not for very much longer...

(Riff Raff) I've got to keep control.
I remember doing the Time Warp.
Drinking those moments when
The blackness would hit me.

(Riff Raff & Magenta) And the void would be calling.

(Guests) Let's do the Time Warp again.
Let's do the Time Warp again.

Songwriters: O'BRIEN, RICHARD

Credit for the ‘Lips’ image and Time Warp song goes to one of my most favourite movies of all time, The Rocky Horror Picture Show.