BOO! BOO! BOO-YA!

I can’t count how many times people have said to me, “But I deserve it!”  So many times when I talk with people, I perceive this huge sense of entitlement, which flows off them in gigantic waves.  And, I think I’ve seen most of it since I moved here to South Park, so patently obvious.  Silver heads, at least a lot of them, take it for granted here.

What is it with people?  What makes them entitled?  What makes them deserve ‘it’?  Even I have used that term over the course of my 61+ years of age, like buying myself a little treat when I got a raise when I was in ‘The Big Job’, because I worked hard for that raise and I deserve ‘it’.

 

Recently, on a luxury coach outing to the big city of Toronto with a local organization, I got to experience this sense of entitlement first hand, up front, in my face and I have to say, it left a really bad feeling in my mouth. 

The bus was departing from a local mall uptown from me, about a 20 minute drive away.  Having grown up in a house where one of my parents (my dad) was a punctuality fanatic, I was brain-washed from an early age, to always being about 15 minutes early, wherever I had to be; school when I finally got to start kindergarten; then when I started dating, yep never did figure out the ‘Keep ‘em waiting’ philosophy; then when I started working, especially my first ‘real’ job after I got out of high school. If I wasn’t at least 15 minutes early, I would start hyperventilating, especially when I wasn’t in charge of my mode of transportation, i.e. public transit to downtown Montreal, working in a lawyer’s office as a court runner/file clerk and couldn’t control the speed of the train I was on or the bus I got onto after the train. 

                                                   

To me, being on time, is the epitome of respect.

Anyhoo, I digress.  On a recent Saturday morning, here’s a bus load of 44 people, plus the driver, sitting and waiting, sitting and waiting.  I wasn’t sure what we were waiting for until a person of importance in the group finally got on the loudspeaker at 8:26 and mentioned that we were waiting for a couple and asked if we should leave now or give them 3 more minutes, which would mean an 8:30 a.m. departure, instead of 8:00.   Since we had already been waiting for almost an entire half hour, a lot of the bus people felt, “So what’s another 3 minutes?”  This tardy twosome finally arrived right on the nose of 8:30. Yay for them – NOT.  

I don’t know what the other 44 people did while we were waiting for this tardy twosome, but I spent the time figuring out how much time these two tardy people wasted on behalf the 45 people, who were there on time.  Let’s do some math – you probably won’t even need to drag out your smart phone and find the calculator app.  Forty-five people x .5 (half) of an hour.  That’s a collective 22.5 hours!  or almost one full 24 hour day, waiting for two people who thought our departure time was 10:00.  Huh?

So because of two people who couldn’t get their act together enough to make note of the correct departure time, 45 other people paid the price.  AND when these two people finally made it onto the bus, they didn’t even apologize to the 45 people they had kept waiting.  What’s all that about?  Why is it their due that we had to wait for them?  Does their poop not stink like the rest of the bus people?  What makes them so special that they just ignore the social niceties for keeping 45 people waiting and not apologizing?  Why did they deserve to have a bus load of people kept waiting for 30 minutes?  And, I guess, more to the point, why did the trip organizer allow that to happen?  

This tardy twosome appeared to be totally bewildered by some of the bus people who actually booed them (and not in a ‘Casper, The Friendly Ghost’ kind of way) when they finally boarded.  Although, I admit, booing is (somewhat) bad manners on the Boo’ers part, I applaud them for their courage in expressing their unhappiness to the people who caused the situation.   After all, don’t people who have been kept waiting for the tardy two deserve to express their opinions? Judging by the expression on the tardy twosome’s faces upon hearing the booing, they had no idea why someone would boo them.  Where did they learn their manners? 

Maybe they’ll say something later, at the restaurant where we were all lunching together? 

Nope, not even then and that would have been a perfect opportunity for them to do so.  It, at least, was quieter than the bus and stationary.  During the course of the day it became obvious to me that these two people were totally oblivious as to having done something wrong, which required an apology, probably because they’re special in some way I have yet to figure out.

I grew up in a family where you worked to accomplish your goals.  They weren’t handed to you on a platter.  Where you weren’t praised for every act you so cleverly achieved and which seems to be the way a lot of kids are being parented these days.  Get up, get dressed and go to school  - oh what a wonderful person you are, Ashley!  Thank you for doing that.  Seriously?  What happens when they grow up and start working?  Is the boss going to applaud them on a daily basis for doing what is expected of them?  “Oh, Ashley, you got to work on time today.  Thank you so much!”  What are we setting our children or grandchildren up for by praising them to the moon and back for things and actions that should just be?  Let’s get real.  Life just isn’t like that, unless you’re your own boss and then you can pat yourself on the back as many times during the day as you want BUT will it pay the bills?

So for all those people out there who think that they deserve to have 45 people sit and wait for them, I say “BOO”.  And for the ones who enable people to have this sense of entitlement, I say “BOO”.

One day, that something that's going around, will.  BOO-YA!

How Many Berries Does it Take to Fill Up a Bear? QUART ONE

Creeeeeeeeak.  My pace quickens as disturbing images crowd my over-active imagination.  My mind’s eye picturing a 100 pound black menace rolling back the top of my economy-class Toyota sedan, like it was just a big-box-store sized can of sardines.  Its silver(ish) metal overcoat weakened by 12 years of being rode hard and put away wet would probably make it an easier task for a ravenous Ursus americanus americanus to peel back the roof like it's a ripe grape.

Shaking my head at my naïveté, I start walking just a titch faster.  I can just imagine the bear’s enthusiasm to reach the delectable lunch he can smell but not see, in the blue, dollar store cooler bag tucked away in the corner of the back seat of my somewhat battered grey import.  Assorted fruit and (maybe) a chocolate bar or two add to the smorgasbord of great smells.  Bonus!  Hmmm, ham or roast beef sandwich?

The day started off innocently enough.  My friend, Yvette, up from the Big Smoke for the weekend,  visiting the Near North for what turned out to be, at least that day, a glorious but decidedly strange and never-to-be-forgotten jaunt (my favourite pastime).  Truth be told, it’s definitely the oddest jaunt I’ve ever had.

Me, my friend, Yvette and Wonder Dog, Sofie, hurry back down the colourful, leaf-littered trail toward the parking area of the sculpture forest, aka The Tree Museum, near Gravenhurst.  My thoughts are torn between two things – seriously, how many berries does it take to fill up a bear?  And the other, how much damage could a small(ish) bear inflict on my venerable vehicle?

Our day started off so normally; the usual foot wiggles to get the circulation ramped up enough to get out of bed and stay upright, accompanied by gentle, old(er) people noises.  Bathroom time and then decision making whether to pack a picnic or take the chance of being able to find a place to eat at some point during our jaunt.  Picnic won out, as I remember a bunch of times being out in the middle of nowhere, listening to my stomach do the rumble and roll cha-cha from hunger, almost drowning out the radio.  The spacious blue cooler bag is packed tight and the non-perishables take up a good part of a grocery bag.  Then we hit the road.

A couple of hours later, crisp almost-autumn air hits our lungs as we get out of my car and stretch the pins and needles out of our legs.  It’s been a long drive from SCA, made even longer since my Garmin decided that the most direct route took us off the highway and through Orillia.  Really?  Why?  Can’t figure that one out but will try to remember to stay on the highway the next time.  Nuvi ‘Jane’ will just have to recalculate.

There’s only one other car in the rough, rutted grass parking area besides mine and my writer’s mind starts to fill in the blanks about the people who belong to it. Shrugging off the distraction, Yvette and I start down the uneven path towards the forest.  I mention to Yvette that I’ve got my cell phone in my pocket, my tumbo (a bamboo staff about 2 feet long (61 cm) from my karate training days - it’s good for parting iffy vegetation (poison ivy abounds up here) and fighting off smallish wildlife, if needed, and I’m wearing a bright blue tee-shirt, just in case. Nothing if but thorough, I think. I casually mention to Yvette, that it’s ‘that time of year’ when bears are trying to fatten up for the long, cold winter ahead.  Lots of fat = good hibernation.    

Yvette takes the information in stride but I think she is just a little apprehensive about bears in the ‘hood and, also, maybe thinks I’m pulling her leg.  Did I ever mention that Yvette is a bit of a hot-house flower?  She prefers the trendy but genteel streets of Yorkville and, in bad weather, the Eaton Centre.  She puts up with my jaunting with patient humour, provided that she stays under the mosquito squadrons’ and black fly battalions’ radar.  Apparently, there are no such creatures in London, England, where she hails from and it seems that our indigenous insects think she’s just the thing to quench their thirst.

We amble down the tree-lined path and around the bend and come across the first of many interesting, artistic endeavors, which involves real trees.

                                                                                                             

                                                       
Sofie, The Wonder Dog, just has to check out the trees, Hmmm, we think to each other.  Interesting.  Sofie, a little disappointed, I think, that there isn’t any pee-mail for her today.

The next thing we spot is a rather battered looking piece of plywood, white paint peeling, off all by its lonesome.  It is tucked away off the path and if not for the flash of white, we probably would have missed it.  There didn’t seem to be a point to it but when you think about it, it is a piece of wood.  To state the obvious, wood comes from trees.  We are in a tree museum.  Hmmm, could that be the point?  I’ll probably never know.  If I remember correctly, there was no sign near it to explain it.




Shrugging off the strangeness of this one, we return to the main path and meander down, enjoying the sunshine and clean, crispy air, not knowing that in a very short time, our leisurely hike would take a very interesting twist.

Stay tuned for QUART TWO …

AQUAYAKKING IN SANDYCOVE

I have been called some interesting things in my life and I’m not too sure that the latest appellation is one that I appreciate – The Plunger.  Hmmm, you ask, how in the hell did you come by that one?  

Hmmm, I reply, "I started taking Aquafit (also known as Aquayak, no explanation needed) a couple of months ago.  Three days a week from 11:00 in the a.m. to noon, I get my luscious body into the pool and exercise the crap out of it.  Not many of our group (numbering around 20) really pay much attention to start and stop times.  Most of us arrive at the south pool early, around 10:30.  It’s first come, first served when it comes to who gets to participate and max capacity in our little pool is 23.  And, no, it doesn’t matter what the weather is, as long as there’s no snow falling or lightning striking, we go."

It has been a weird kind of summer, in this year of our Lord, 2015.  My kind of summer actually, usually decent temps hovering around the 70° f mark, with little or no humidity.  I’m sure you’ve said it yourself – it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity, which kills me.  I just can’t stand it.  The minute I go outside and it’s humid, I start dripping, usually starting in my nice, thick hair and continuing southbound.  If it gets up to 90°, that’s okay, just as long as it’s not humid. 

But how often does humidity-less days happen?   Especially up here in the Town Above, since most of our county is on the banks of the fourth largest lake, wholly within the province of Ontario.  Somehow Mother Nature skipped the humidity in our weather forecast this summer and most days it’s just lovely.  I can honestly say it’s one of the nicest summers I’ve ever had.

With the good, comes the not-so-good though.  Without the humidity, it’s harder to appreciate getting into a pool (with a wonky heater) three mornings a week.  It’s even harder getting out, considering the brisk breeze, which turns on the headlights on all the women. 

One sullen mid-July morning, it seemed that the snow clause almost came into effect, when I dragged my reluctant self out of bed and, shivering, stumbled to the window to close it against the chill.  Hmmm, the brain started ticking over the question, Aquayak or no Aquayak?

After closing the bedroom window and thinking about turning on the gas fireplace in the living room, I made it to the back bedroom to check the outside thermometer.  That day it was a bone-chilling 63° (which translates to a measly 17° celsius) and it was windy.  I’m surprised that there was no wind-chill warning that morning.  Oh, and then there was the problem from the day before, something about a pump not working, which had kept the pool closed for the whole day. 

                                             

Standing by the patio door, mesmerized by the thermometer, hovering around 60°, I decided that skipping Aquayak that day was the better part of being smart. It was a bone-chilling thought to immerse myself in a supposedly heated pool under a dark, dour, sky, with a wind chill factor (at least in my mind there was one) and perhaps normal in November but totally out of place in mid-July.  

                                      (not really this cold but it sure felt like it some mornings!)

One day, it was over 80° f (27° c) in the pool, but that was rare.  Most times it hovered around 70°f to maybe 75° and our outspoken aquatics leader, Monique, a pioneer originally from Cape Breton a handful of decades or so ago, sometimes ended up directing her stalwart pod from a standing position on the side of the pool.   Others dipped a toe or maybe even a whole foot, shivered, said their hellos and goodbyes and left.  Most of our group are in the over 65 age range and experience a number of health challenges already, and they don’t want to add to them by willingly exposing themselves to pneumonia!

Which brings me back to my newest nickname, The Plunger.  The first time, Donna (names have been disguised to protect the not-so-innocent), called me The Plunger, I have to say that I was startled, as I immediately envisioned that thick, brownish, rubber thingie used to unplug stopped-up toilets.  I still have that image stuck in my brain. 

I did earn that nickname honestly though.  Because the pool heater has been wonky all summer, the only constant about the temperature has been asking, upon arrival at the pool, what temperature the pool was.  The cluster of women on the weathered, wooden deck, tightly wrapped in gay beach towels or thick, woolly, white, terry robes, usually tipped me off before anyone answered.  Even on a cool day, if the pool was a decent temperature, the early birds would go in just to keep warm.  Clumped on the deck in a somewhat sheltered corner and sitting close to each other told me immediately that I was not going to be tiptoeing into that pool. 

So instead of walking in via the stairs and getting stuck behind someone who was taking a long time to reach bottom, I started jumping into the deep end, which, if the 12” high numbers painted in black on the pool’s edge are to be believed, is 6’ (2 meters(ish).  I just get it over with in one fell swoop.  Hence, taking the plunge, or as Donna coined it, also known as The Plunger. 

One day, my nickname may have to change to The Cannonball, which is what I keep threatening to do.  I just have to manage to wrap my arms around my lower legs and jump, all at the same time.  A cinch to do when you’re a slim 13 year old, not so much at a chubby 60ish.  Maybe I’ll practice in our local indoor pool over the winter and surprise everyone next summer.

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

LIVING & MOWING IN A GREEN WORLD

How many of you have heard or even said it yourself, “If it weren’t for all the weeds in my lawn being green and growing like, well, like weeds, I wouldn't have to mow at all?

C’est moi! That’s me and my lawns.  Back, front, sides, doesn’t matter.  If it weren’t for the abundance of weedy green things, I really wouldn’t have to mow at all.  I long for the good ole’ days when I first moved to Sandycove Acres, from the Town Down Under. 

I push back in my over-stuffed blue tweed recliner, pop up the foot stool thingie and lay back with a tired sigh (even before coffee this morning, I weed-whacked all the naked dandelion stalks and then mowed) and remember back to when I first moved into New Dodge, aka Sandycove Acres.

Sofie's Little Pink Belly

The front lawn had been sodded long before moving day (good thing – it had been a mud pit when I bought the house) and had taken rather well and not a weed to be seen.  I’m thinking either Mother Nature had been extraordinarily generous with spring rain (it was, after all, only very early June), or maybe someone had been watering it.  The what wasn’t really important, just the result.  EXCEPT that Sofie, The Wonder Dog, although big of heart, is small in stature and can’t stand to tinkle if the grass is tickling her cute, little pink belly.  So, that leaves?  Yep, you guessed it!  My neighbours immaculately maintained lawn.  Her grass abuts my grass and, on the other side, my grass abuts my neighbour’s grass and so on and so on and so on.  I had to get my grass mowed and tout de suite!  I spotted my neighbour, Rich, toiling on my neighbour’s lawn across the street and made a bee-line straight for him.  In no time he was over at my house, mowing back my new-sod-gone-wild in the front yard to a height that Sofie would pee on instead of my neighbour’s.

Well now, three years later, my front lawn, especially, is a weedy hot mess.  Mostly it’s because my neighbour to the east of me, whose lawn abuts mine, does not believe in weed control at all.  Oh, and the neighbour I had when I first moved in with the immaculate lawn?  Well, didn’t she move out a month after I moved in?  The new neighbour, besides being a Water Rat (that’s another story for another day), also didn’t seem to care much about the outside of her property as much as she loved playing cards, scrabble, bingo and pretty much any kind of game you can name.  So, she sometimes had someone mow her lawn but nothing else much beyond that. 

 So now, with neighbours on both sides of my house with abutting lawns, who not only ignore weeds but actually seem to encourage them, my lawns didn’t stand a chance.  Before too long, we all had a good sunny crop of gaily waving dandelions, which I’ve heard, are good for the bees, and are considered to be the bee’s spring savior. 

Why all the pondering 2 years later?  Well, the game-playing neighbour moved out last year (I pause to sniff my pits), the second neighbour to move away in my three year tenure here.  The new neighbour, who besides having a huge sense of entitlement, has an ‘Alzie’ husband and a penchant for strict order, at least on the outside.  After spending months having her ‘new’ house renovated (and alienating her neighbour – yes, me, with a constant stream of contractors, etc. most of whom thought nothing of parking in my parking spot – another story for another time), finally finishes and now seems to be determined to whip her lawn into military-like preciseness.  So just when I think ‘her’ work is done, lawn guys roar up our quiet crescent early in the morning, spring from their jacked-up pick-up trucks with their young, perfectly working knees, all manner of tools at hand.  Other trucks deliver load after load of rich, black dirt and the outside makeover commences.  Sigh, it seems like ‘her’ work here will never be done.

Oh well, at least all this lawn work might actually encourage grass to grow, instead of  green, weedy things.  Well, after about what seems like a week but is probably only 2 or 3 days, the lawn guys leave in their tricked-out trucks.  Ahh, peace and quiet reigns again on Marlin Court.

Sofie just being cute

It doesn’t last long.  I’m guessing my neighbour was not satisfied with the lawn guy’s work, so now The Weed Guys start coming.  One day when I went outside with Sofie,  The Wonder Dog, my porch was littered with these small, white, pellets. Hmm, say I, peering rather nearsightedly at these strange things on my porch, where did this all this s*^t come from?  It didn’t take long before the birdie chirps and I figure out that ‘she’ had had her lawn done.  The sign on the edge of ‘her’ lawn is a dead give-away too.  Not happy am I.  I really don’t believe in all the crap ‘they’, the Lawn Companies, use on the lawns, even after the pesticide ban.  ‘They’ have come up with something ‘they’ claim is safe for dogs but the girl who was spraying today couldn’t tell me what was in the s*^t she was using, only the name of it.  I, nicely, asked her to make sure that crap was sprayed only on my neighbour’s lawn and not mine.  Oh, and the strange, white pellets which were on my porch – still don’t know.

Well, to make a short story just a titch longer, yesterday when I left the house for a client’s, ‘her’ neighbour on the other side, Ringo (not really) was mowing ‘her’ lawn.  When I got home, I noticed quite the swath had been cut entirely around my birdbath and Ringo likes to cut short.  I’ve been told that you’re supposed to keep your grass at a 3” height (7.6 cm for those metrically in-the-know) and so I do.  After I mowed today, you sure can tell who knows about the 3” rule and who doesn’t.  It looks odd.

Bald as a monk's head

I saw Ringo this morning and called over to him about his mowing job.  His excuse?  He didn’t know where the lot line was.  I pantomimed it to him with hand and arm signals, feeling like one of those guys who guide the gargantuan planes into their parking space at the airport, and a verbal explanation.  He didn’t look happy.  I have to believe that my neighbour, ‘Her’ had given him his mowing orders and had instructed him to go around the birdbath rather than just mow it on her side.  She had been at me a couple of times this week about its location and the weeds around it.  She thought it was hers (left behind by the previous owner, Water Rat) and was going to move it to Her backyard.  She did have sense enough though to ask me, though, who it belonged to before doing that.  ‘She’ also didn’t like the golden flowers I had let grow up around it, enjoying the contrast between the sunny yellow dandelions and the drab concrete.  The area now resembles a tonsure.               

I am territorial about my parking spaces, porch and yes, even my weeds and if Ringo ever mows my side again, I’m guessing ‘She’ and I will be having a nice chat about boundaries – again (and yes, that’s another story for another day).

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

A SANDYCOVE MOMENT

Recently I started going to bingo nights at The Wheel here in SCA South Park – residents only allowed, although security is kinda of lackadaisical and the odd outsider probably sneaks in, especially former residents who used to attend but have now moved out of SCA, north or South Park.  

A relative newcomer to The Park (I knew her in my old life in The Town Down Under) invited me to go with her a few weeks ago for the first time.  Funny how life can take you places you never thought you’d go.

When I was a child, bingo was a very popular delivery method for giving kids their loot bags at birthday parties.  It was simple - you played until you won your bag.  As soon as you won, you stopped playing.  Ah, I can still remember those days.  I had to play to the bitter end and even then, most of the time, the party hostess had to give me my loot bag ‘cause I hardly ever bingo’ed.  What kind of karma is that?  And why, with that kind of history, would I even go to bingo as a grown up?  Am I a closet masochist?  And now I even have to pay for the pleasure of playing? 

Here in the land of the Adult Lifestyle Community, the silver hairs get off relatively lightly when it comes to buying bingo ‘cards’ (not cards anymore - with the invention of the dabber, they’re printed on paper now and discarded after each game).  I can just imagine how many trees die for the bingo cause.

The basic package, which includes a set of warm-up cards and the mutli-paged main games, costs $7.00, commonly referred to as the $7.00 special.  You can spend more if you like.  You can buy as many of the warm-up sets as you want, @ $1.00 and the main games.  Extras of the last game of

the night, which is the jackpot card, can be purchased for $1.00, as many as you want or, more precisely, can keep up with, dabbing at the speed of a very fast tortoise.  The many long, rectangular tables are a-blur of colour as the bingo caller murmurs into the microphone, “B4” and the bingo dabbers march robotically down one set of cards and then up the next.  It kinda reminds me of a well-choreographed dance.  Groans of disappointment rise, a palpable cloud as someone in the far back corner, screams “BINGO”.  Then another groan, as someone else yells, “BINGO” from the opposite side of the cavernous room. 

The ‘Confirmers’ as I think of them, trundle across the room, some with a rolling gait which reminds me of the sea, as fast as they can to the bingo players and with admirable clarity and speed, call out the winning numbers, via battery operated microphones.  You can tell that they have had a lot of practice and each have developed a certain style over the years.  One of the Confirmers kinda goofed the other night and read out a few numbers which didn’t ‘go’ and then got us laughing by exclaiming, “Oh, silly me.  Those ones weren’t the right ones.  No doubt it won’t be my last mistake of the night.”  Peter, sitting one person down from me and the owner of the large container of fresh gummy jujubes and big, brightly coloured bubble gums balls, brought to share with our table, said, “Ah, Martha must be having a Sandycove Moment!”  A smile twitches my lips as I instantly relate to Sandycove moments, having had one or two or maybe a few in the last couple of years since moving to South Park, Sandycove Acres and it feels good that I have ‘em in a place where everyone knows what having a Sandycove Moment feels like. 

How many Sandycove Moments have I had?  Hmmmm, let me count the ways…on the other hand, maybe not count, lest my Power of Attorney for my health, which includes mental, feels that there are way too many ways and decides to commit me to the nearest Looney Bin!

Martha gets back on track and the card is declared a “Good bingo” by the official Bingo Caller (who just happens to be my new(ish) next door neighbour, bringing a few sighs and a couple of groans and play resumes.

My first game is a bewildering blur, as my bingo mentors try to ed-u-mi-cate me on the finer points of bingo organization.  For, as you can see by the ‘Game Plan’, it’s not that simple.  Other than the basic four warm-up games, which you can win by dabbing 2 lines ‘anyway’, all the other games have multiple winning possibilities, so that your $7.00 special will bring you hours of playing pleasure for the price of a pack of cigarettes (maybe less these days?).  Speaking of cigarettes…back in the ‘olden’ days, smoking was not only allowed in bingo halls but accepted as a lifestyle choice.  A thick greyish cloud of smoke hovered

above the bingo players’ heads, who hacked and coughed a discordant melody accompanying the bingo caller’s sing-song cadence.  Now-a-days, smokers make a frantic run for the exit doors when break is called and return reeking of their guilty, carcinogenic pleasure.

One ‘card’ can bring many minutes of bingo ecstasy.  For instance, on the regular games, say #7, Olive (each game has its own colour) and depending on the complexity of the winning criteria, depends how long it’ll take a player to cry out a triumphant “BINGO”.  For this game, you first need to dab each of the 4 corners.  That doesn’t usually take too long.  The second game on ‘Olive’ is the 4 corners (so if you’re the 4 corners winner, you’re already ahead of the game) and now you add the inside square.  That’s 8 more numbers, bordering the FREE square in the centre.  This takes a bit longer and usually, just when I’m within the win zone on one my of cards, someone else beats me to the punch.  Big groan.

A few weeks ago, I did win with one line, the top one on Orange ($15.00 whole dollars), and haven’t been back since.  I figured I’d go out on top!  Like Seinfeld.

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

YOU KNOW YOU’RE HAVING A REALLY ‘DUH’ MOMENT WHEN…

you’re standing on a virtual stranger’s porch, clutching a hell-fire cat and wondering when your knight in shining armor will show up on his white steed, or in our case, Nigel in his tan van. 

As Pricilla, me, Puss Puss, now known as Daisy Duke, Baby and Sofie The Wonder Dog, all crowd together on The Lady From The Corner’s porch, I ask Kathleen (aka The Lady…) if she has anything to put the spitfire in while we wait for Nigel, The Cat Whisperer, to get there.  Kathleen, looks around her porch and shrugs, says “No”, when I ask if she has a box, a cat carrier (since she has 3 cats of her own), ANYTHING!  You can just see her unhelpful attitude colour the air a shade of puke brown. 

Kathleen has suddenly gone from someone who seemed to care about what happens to the little ‘stray’ she’s been feeding for a year, to this ‘Why are you bothering me, I don’t want to be involved’ kind of person.  It was something I would have to ponder on later, as I desperately look around for something in which to contain Daisy Duke until Nigel can get here.  Finally and with obvious great reluctance, Kathleen unearths a beat-up plastic container which stands about 2 feet tall by about a foot across and about 18 inches long (about 60cm x 30cm x 45cm for the metric measure crowd), fire-engine red with a lid and a handle.  How did it magically appear on the peeling porch deck, wonders I but feel so relieved that we finally have something to put petrified Daisy Duke in, at least temporarily. 

As Kathleen moves toward me, she says, “Here you can use this.  I usually keep cat food in it.”   I remember thinking how appropriate that is and working in tandem, she peels the top off, I stuff Daisy Duke in, towel and all and Kathleen flips the lid on with a limp wrist.  Whew!   The lid is mostly on but doesn't close snugly where the towel spills over the side.  Of course, there is Daisy Duke inside too and I’m not sure that all her limbs are in a comfy position.  Meanwhile, Pricilla perches precariously on the porch steps, clutching Baby’s and Sofie’s leashes, one in each hand and cranes her neck around various bodies trying to see the action.  Both dogs, not too sure of the goings on, are panting in unison and hip-hopping around, anxiously trying to avoid being trod upon in the melee. 

The lid suddenly flies up a couple of inches on one end and a brown foot, with talons extended, curls over the edge of the container, getting a pretty good grip with needle sharp nails.  I absently note that Daisy Duke could use a manicure and probably a pedi, push the searching paw back inside with a little more of the towel, jam the lid down as far as I can and then, for good measure, sit on it!  Not the sturdiest thing in the world to be perched on, when I, a BBW (big, beautiful woman), attempt to balance my weight so I don’t crush the contents and topple over but with enough oomph keep the lid on. 

It’s awkward and my knees start to ache in no time.  I ask Kathleen if she could please drive Pricilla down the street to get Nigel and hurry him up to our location.  Kathleen’s face twists into a moue of displeasure and it looks like she’s going to refuse.  But she starts wobbling towards the door to put her shoes on and get her keys. At the rate she’s moving, it’s should take an hour for her to get anywhere.  Rather desperately I look around for an alternative.  I spot the man next door (rather new to SCA) but necessity is born out of desperation and I call out to him.  He looks up from what he’s working on, rather startled.  I fill him in on our situation and without a moment’s hesitation he drops what he’s doing, runs into his house, emerges wearing a jacket and jumps into his pick-up. I think it took him about 30 seconds.   Pricilla thrusts Sofie‘s and Baby’s leashes into my hand and jumps into the passenger side.

They take off with a whoosh, as I rather tiredly lean against the porch railing and plant my foot on top of the container.  That seems to do the trick, keeping the lid on, and, as I stand there, it finally sinks in, that since I have captured Daisy Duke, the likelihood of having to undergo rabies shots (a series of 8 in major muscle groups closest to the bite site), has vanished.  Yay!  Although exhausted from the night’s events and the sleepless ones preceding it, I feel better already.  It’s quite obvious that Daisy Duke is in good health and the only one foaming at the mouth, at that moment, is me.  Where in the heck is my back-up?  

I have to wonder where in the hell Pricilla and the neighbour man are, and more importantly, Nigel, keeper of the cat carrier.  I also have to wonder why in the hell I didn't think to stash a crate in the area before-hand, oh, and what about saving Nigel's cell phone number in my cell phone and bringing that along?  A double DUH!

A rumble brings my head up and sets the dogs quivering.  The pick-up truck rounds the corner and right behind, a tan van.  The Calvary has arrived!  Nigel jumps out of the van and comes up onto the deck.  He’s pretty pumped from the events of the evening already, having captured a big boy who’d been hanging out at another resident’s place, a far piece down the road.  Nigel was so excited that he started back to the van so he could show off Frankie, so named by the lady of that house.

Rather exasperatedly, I yell, “Stop!  Let’s get this one into a crate and then you can show off the boy.”  Trust a man not to notice how precarious the situation is with the wobbly red container.  My foot is sliding off and it takes all the oomph I have left to keep the bucket upright.  Nigel continues to the van, grabs a black, soft-sided carrier and comes back to the porch.  Realizing that opening the plastic bin outside is probably not a good idea, he says, “Carry the bin to the van and put it on the front passenger seat.  I’ll get in at the driver’s side and get her into the carrier.”  Well, so I do, and, as soon as I slam the van door shut, the lid pops off and Daisy Duke pops out, reminding me of a wind up jack-in-box I’d had as a kid.  She leaps onto the dashboard and crouches there, really bent out of shape, literally.  Oh, just kidding, all her limbs appear to be working fine, despite being crammed into the red bucket.

Nigel can’t reach over that far to nab Daisy Duke and says, “Bang on the window and scare her over here.”  I reach out and tap the windshield and sure enough, Daisy Duke skitters right into Nigel’s hands, and he plunks her into the carrier.  I can’t believe my eyes – boy, where is the little hell-cat I saw when I tried to get her into a crate a few days ago? 

I think she’s as exhausted as I am and finally gives up the good fight.  I have to believe that after all the months of living on her own, hungry, tired and wet from the soggy summer we’d had, she is finally ready to come in.  Being pregnant, too, might have had something to do with it.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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

DON’T PEE ON MY LEG...

and tell me it’s raining!  It’s a lot harder than you may think to pull the wool over my eyes, being a good ole’ half-Irish girl from Montreal.  Or maybe it’s the Romany part of me (passed down along my mother’s roots), which makes it harder.  Or it just could be my almost 60 years of living, 25 of those years in the male-dominated industry of specialty publishing and most of those men the best prevaricators on the planet, second only, perhaps, to many politicians

After getting absolutely nowhere with the Town of Innisfil and their contracted employee, K9 Pest Management Group Inc. which has a contract to handle Animal Control in my town, to have someone other than myself capture the little hell cat that bit me so that I wouldn't have to go through rabies shots, I knew that I was going to have to try again.  I have to say that I am so less-than-impressed with the inertia and apathetic response to my dilemma. I was further disgusted by Animal Control’s pathetic attempt to cover up their reprehensible lack of action in such a serious matter.  And that the Town Hall designate Animal Control overseer, Daniel Rodgers, who finally called me back 8 days after I left him a message, stated to me that I was supposed to call ‘Dawn’ (Animal Control) back and let her know if my ‘neighbour’ would allow a live trap to be set.  Boy, talk about misrepresentation of facts.  I never spoke to ‘Dawn’ and the woman I did speak with, Diane, wasn't sure that Animal Control could set a live trap and take the cat into quarantine; would have to check with an ubiquitous ‘someone’ and call me back, which she never did. 

I told Dan Rodgers that his offer to have the cat trapped was a day late and a dollar short and that I would take care of the problem myself.  Mysteriously, about 2.5 hours later, Brad, from Animal Control, called me and offered the same story about who I spoke to and that he was following up because I said I would call back and hadn't.  Who are they trying to kid?  Not only do I take notes when I feel there may be issues but they are hand-written notes and so, if altered, would be obvious.  Unlike, perhaps, Animal Control’s notes and/or other documentation which are probably kept in a digital file and easily edited.  Hmmm and which story makes more sense?  As Judge Judy (I just love her) would say, “If it doesn't make sense, it’s not true.”   

***********

THE TAKE DOWN

Four days after my rescue attempt, I tried again, this time bolstered by Priscilla, who had also been in touch with Nigel (the local volunteer cat whisperer) about the same stray.  And further bolstered by the knowledge of what I should have done differently the first time and avoid the aftermath of being bitten and scratched.  I brought along an extra-large, extra thick bath towel, willing to sacrifice it to the greater good of capturing the little hell cat, whom I now call Daisy Duke.

This Take Down went a lot better.  As Pricilla and I walked our dogs along Daisy Duke’s known territory and hide out, Pricilla shook the small plastic container of cat crunchies (or maybe they were dog crunchies? since Pricilla doesn't have a cat).  I didn't think Daisy Duke was at all fussy what the hand-out was.  Sure enough, she emerges from the wooded area, runs down the gentle slope to the shallow drainage ditch, hesitates

for a couple of seconds and with a mighty leap, clears the barely-there rainwater, jumping high as if it was a raging stream during spring run-off.  She comes running over and immediately butts up against Sofie and then makes a beeline for Pricilla’s dog, Baby.

I’m surprised that she even comes near me, given the circumstances of our last encounter and as I bend over to stroke her, she arches her back under my hand and starts to purr.  My heart goes out to this obviously once much-loved pet who seems to love people, especially those with little white dogs.

I can feel the hard ridge of her spine and my heart cracks a little more.  As my hand moves over her petite body, I feel her bony rib cage and realize that Daisy Duke has become a mere shadow of herself over the past couple of months, since I first saw her.  As the days grow shorter, she is growing thinner and more raggedy looking. 

Even after being shredded and bitten by her, I pick her up and wrap her in the towel.  Again, she is not impressed or happy with the manoeuvre and struggles to get away.  I sure am glad that the towel contains her, although only about half-way wrapped.  Also, I have on a light jacket so at least my tummy area survives Daisy Duke’s escape attempts.  She is bewildered and terribly scared and her growls and yowling warn me to be on guard.  It’s a good thing I’m already on antibiotics ‘cause if she bites me again, at least treatment is already well under way. 

As Pricilla and I walk toward the house on the corner where the lady says she’s been feeding Daisy Duke for about a year, Daisy Duke becomes even more agitated.  She almost manages to leap from my arms as she hears the voice of The Lady From The Corner House.  No love lost there.

Kathleen does not seem to be happy that Pricilla and I have landed on her porch with Daisy Duke.  She seems almost hostile.  I can’t figure that one out.  When I had spoken with her previously (before rescue attempt #1), she seemed to be concerned about the cat and said she’d been feeding her for a long time but that the cat wouldn't come into her house.  Nuh huh.  I don’t think Kathleen speaks the whole truth.

I had made arrangements with Nigel, The Cat Whisperer, to meet me in the wood shop area where Daisy Duke was known to frequent but he got held up trying to capture another stray quite a bit further up the same street.  Yep, no lack of cats here in Sandycove Acres, The New Wild West.  So here I stand on a stranger’s porch with one very pissed off (and petrified) cat in my arms.  What to do?

To Be Continued …

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