THERE’S A GROUSE IN MY HOUSE

 

There’s a grouse in my house

Says the little brown mouse

And I don’t know why he’s there 

There’s a grouse in my house

Says the little brown mouse

And all he does is stare

      

               There’s a grouse in my house

                 Says the little brown mouse

             And he’s giving me quite a scare

There’s a grouse in my house

           Says the little brown mouse

          And he won’t get off my chair

There’s a grouse in my house

Says the little brown mouse

And now he’s on the stair

 There’s a grouse in my house

Says the little brown mouse

I’m going to go get my bear

Now there’s no grouse in my house

Says the little brown mouse

He’s finally out of my hair!

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BUSTED! BEWARE THE CHICKEN POLICE!

I had a rather interesting experience late this afternoon when I stopped at my local grocery store, wanting to buy one of the delicious, cooked barbecue chickens.  I’d had a hankering all weekend for one, but living in the ‘tourist’ town that I do, I don’t dare go near the street the grocery store is on.  It’s the main road into our beautiful beach park and every nice weather day in the summer and especially weekends, it’s an endless line of red tail lights, casting a raspberry glow as far as the eye can see.  I try to wait until the out-of-towners have departed our usually serene beach town to go back to their hot and smoggy cities from whence they’ve come.

On Monday, the hankering can be denied no more.  I deliberately time my arrival at the grocery store so I could get one of the just-out-of-the rotisserie, piping hot and juicy chickens.  Alas, I was there about 10 minutes too early.  The deli clerk, recognizing me as a regular, managed to let me know that they (being the chickens) would be out of the rotisserie in about 10-15 minutes.  She is multi-tasking; serving the can’t-make-up-my-mind-Asian-Persuasion-Grandma who was there with her 6 grand kids and the mother (I think) of said grand kids and who wanted every… single … piece, chosen by each .. and … every … grand kid, with a great deal of time-consuming thought and mind-changing, packed separately.  The clerk is a shining example of patience and Customer Service.  Me, not so much in the patience area. 

I am grateful though, that the clerk knows what I’m wanting to ask and I don’t have to wait until Grandma is done.

I said I’d be back and cruise the store for the next few minutes, stopping to check out the bunkers of fresh meat, hoping I could score one or two steaks on special, hopefully cheap enough that I wouldn’t have to mortgage my house or perhaps sell my ample, curvy, luscious body by the pound, on the street corner in order to afford it  Nope, no such luck.  The ones on special are cut pretty big and so weigh in around the $17.00 mark for 2 in the package.  I used to love red meat but as I’ve matured, discovered it doesn’t love me as much I love it.  Someone mentioned that ‘they’ were feeding the cows grain now, instead of hay or field grasses and that’s probably why I’m reacting to it.  Apparently cows shouldn’t be eating grain – it’s just not natural.  Hmmm, “That explains a lot”, I think to myself and now try to make sure that when I can afford to buy red meat, it’s eaten the right stuff, before I eat it.

I do a fast pass of the store, checking out the specials and picking up the cat grass my cats love to eat.  Then they promptly upchuck on the beige wall-to-wall carpeting in the living room.  Scoped out the pop isle too and was disappointed not to find the ginger soda I treat myself to now and again.  Oh well, saved some money there. 

I make my way back to the chicken counter and notice that it seems to be a popular place to hang out.  There are about 7 or 8 people clustered against the bread bins opposite the counter.  I station myself in front of the chicken bunker and I’m having fun watching the clerk, packaging up the hot chickens, efficiently, gracefully and somewhat hypnotically, as she works her way through about 20 of the golden brown birds, steaming on the stainless steel counter.

I am shaken out of my reverie by a stentorian voice, proclaiming, “Why do you think WE’RE all standing here?” 

Huh?  Is he talking to me?  Gob smacked, the penny drops when I realize why all of these are people are draped over the bread bins.  They must be waiting for one of the mouth-watering chickens too.  I turn around and say, VERY LOUDLY, “Oh, I’ve been here a lot longer than you.  The clerk has one with my name on it but thank you for saying what you did loud enough for the entire store to hear”, and turn back to watch the clerk.  The smug look on the loud mouth’s face had quickly dropped off when he realized that I don’t embarrass easy.

AND, he just can’t leave sleeping dogs lie.  Within a minute or so I feel movement behind me and he says, close to my ear, but again, very loudly, “So if you have one reserved, why do you have to stand right up by the counter?”

I heave a deep sigh and turn around and reply, “You’re just not going to let this go, are you?” 

“No.” 

“You should.  You tried to embarrass me by yelling what you did before and you just ended up embarrassing yourself.  Now you’re just trying to keep it going, so you can try, once again, to ‘get’ me."  He starts to say he isn’t embarrassed but I just hold up my hand and say, “Speak to the hand”, which seemed to, at last, shut him up.  He mutters something I can’t really hear (for a change) and I turn around and resume my watch on the clerk who is packaging up my dinner.  A couple of the waiting people comment on how great it is to be able to buy one of the fabulous chickens for only $7.99 and that’s when I realize that it’s Monday and the chickens are on special from the usual $10.99.  It also explains the ‘line-up’.  It doesn’t explain the Chicken Police though, as it’s obvious that there are more than enough birds for everyone who’s waiting.

The clerk brings 4 chickens and puts them on the top of the counter.  I take two, and as I start to turn around, The Chicken Police is already starting to speak, wanting to make, I’m sure, a sarcastic comment, because I had taken two.  I hand one to him and say, “Enjoy.”  He promptly, and I’m sure he thinks, gallantly – did he actually bow as he hands it to the woman who is standing beside him?  She graciously thanks him and walks away.

I make my way to the check out and as I finish paying, I hear someone say, from a couple of check-outs away, and loudly enough for half the store to hear, including me (uh huh, I see him looking at me), “Oh yes, I’m going to enjoy every delicious bite’, I assume he’s referring to the chicken.  He still couldn’t just leave it be, as his icy stare tries to drill holes into the back of my hard Irish head.

I can’t imagine expending THAT MUCH energy on this kind of thing, whether it’s a real or imagined slight; an act of what he considers rudeness, butting ‘the line’.  Even if I was butting, instead of trying to embarrass me by making snide comments loudly enough to be overheard by about a third of the store (and it’s a pretty big store), he could have approached me quietly and personally and suggested that I go to the back of ‘The Line’.  At which point in time I could have, quietly and personally, told him that I was first in his imaginary ‘line’ and keep the other things I’m thinking to myself.

I guess, even at my advanced age, that there’s still new experiences to be had and glad that my first episode (and hopefully last) of Chicken Rage is over.  Although I am wondering, thankfully, how, in this day and age of our wonderful modern technology, the whole sorry episode escaped being caught on video and then going viral!  Thankfully, my own winged creature, my Chicken Angel, must have been watching over me.

My Chicken Angel

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ZOMBIE COVE ACRES

When I first moved here from the Town Down Below in 2012, I was enthralled with the serenity and beauty of my new hometown and especially the new little village I had chosen to live in for the rest of my life.  What I didn’t know, was that I might come to regret that choice.

Head Zombie

Recently someone who lives here started a facebook page just for the ‘people’ who live here.  About 65 ‘people’ joined.  I have to admit that one day I woke up and seemed to have been taken over by something I can’t describe or put my finger on, so I joined this group too. Very quickly, the group seemed to be populated by some zombie-like creatures. Luckily, I hadn’t been taken over by the Zombie powders.  I spoke my mind on one of my posts, which didn’t happen to agree with the Head Zombie’s opinion, so she suspended me.  Isn’t that how Zombies are made?  Where did these creatures come from in the first place?           

According to Wiki  “A zombie (Haitian French: zombi, Haitian Creole: zonbi) is a fictional undead being, created through the reanimation of a human corpse.”    

The Head Zombie made this statement to me, “Unfortunately I find it necessary to suspend your ability to post on Fs & Ns. Your privilege to post will be reinstated after one week.”  

I was so sad to realize that this woman, who I liked and respected seemed to have been sucked into the mindset and culture of our Village, which, in my opinion, is not a good thing overall.  Suspended because my opinion is not the same as hers.  Suspended because the Head Zombie seems to believe that it’s okay for the HOA Board of Directors to terminate your membership if THEY don’t like what you say about them, the community or other residents.  She actually defends them by saying, “Perhaps the HOA is simply evolving...and Parkbridge being more receptive?” 

And this, AFTER she knew that the HOA is trying to add a gag by-law, taking away Freedom of Speech! 

So what did I say that got me suspended?  “Dinosaurs are extinct, no evolving there. Old blood, dried and crusty. In my opinion, Parkbridge obviously colludes with the HOA to their advantage and to the detriment of the home owners.”  Zap!  I was gone.  Terminated from the group. 

Luckily for me, I came to my senses and told the Head Zombie not to bother reanimating me back into the group, as it is obvious she is not forward thinking and clearly she just doesn’t care for any opinion but her own.  I prefer to associate with others who are open-minded and cherish our freedom of speech.    

A few days later, I saw the rosters for the new Committee members for our various Village recreation centres, and guess what my enquiring mind discovered? The fb Zombies seem to have become the Committee for one of our rec

facilities, with the Head Zombie being a director.  Also, on the Rec Centre Directorship and Executive, I can’t help but notice, is an employee of the Village Lessors.  Also on the board is a member of the HOA Board of Directors, who’s an Executive, and also on about 50% of the HOA sub Committees.  Hmmm, maybe the DoAsIsayasaruses’ created the Zombies?  So many of the Zombies from the fb page are now on the Board of Directors for the rec center. 
Co-inkydink?  I think not. 

I seem to be surrounded by creatures of the night and have to wonder about relationships between the HOA DoAsIsayasaruses’ and the Zombies – read my Democracy is Alive and Well in SCA – NOT!  How incestuous, if it is so.  I really, really, really hope that Zombies and the DoAsIsayasaruses’ can’t procreate together, which would create Zombieasauruses.  I would have to move for sure.  But at least now that the mystery has been unwrapped and the true nature of the fb page started by the Head Zombie revealed.    

When I was growing up, my mom always said to me, “You are judged by the friends you keep.”  I used to scoff at her and tell her she didn’t know what she was talking about, until I made friends with a girl named Rachel, who had the reputation of being ‘easy’.  It didn’t take long until the boys thought I was ‘easy’ too.  So my mom was right after all, but the boys were wrong.  

I continued my friendship with Rachel, who, I discovered, was not easy after all but had been labelled that way when a boy tried to wheedle her into ‘putting out’.   When he couldn’t/wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, she kneed him in the nuts to stop him.  He retaliated by spreading a rumour around school that she was easy.  So, this girl, who had done nothing wrong, was labelled easy, just because this ignorant boy had been denied his ‘cheap feel’ and instead of just slinking home to lick his wounded pride and sore balls, he boasted about his ability to cop more than just a few feels. In no time at all, it became ‘fact’ to the tiny-minded  sheep at school that Rachel was more than just ‘easy’.  I’m glad I remained friends with her and stood up for her.  Eventually Rachel earned a different reputation by graduating high school with honours and eventually becoming an advocate specializing in women’s rights.

I assume by now, that there’s a lot of creatures out there who wish I would move.  I’m happy to say that I’m very happy here and won’t be moving.  At least not anytime soon.  And since most of the creatures which live here, in this seemingly tranquil little village are older than me, I’m thinking I’ll outlive most of them.  I’m thankful for the people who still have their brains and are in their right minds, who actually know me.  They don’t fall into the zombie lack-of-mindset, like so many here who do, to curry favour with the Big Bokor (a sorcerer or witch) On Campus (BBOC) by sucking up to them and letting the BBOC eat their brains for breakfast.

I find it hard to believe and accept that these were once-sentient beings, and I used to refer to them as ‘friends’.  Now that some of them have been elected to a rec centre Directorship, it is my belief, based on previous exposure to certain committees here in the Village, that these beings have succumbed to The BBOC and are now zombies.  The Head Undead goes so far as to defend the HOA DoAsIsayasaruses’ and their feeble attempt to quell a home owner’s right to their freedom of speech. 

The HOA Board of Directors are trying incorporate a gag into their Constitution and by-laws.  Check out Rule #27, which essentially states that if ‘THEY’ (the HOA board of directors) don’t like what you say about them, or Sandycove Acres or fellow residents, you are gone.   Their ludicrous ‘new and improved’ – NOT - changes to their Constitution and By-laws, are based on changes to ONCA (Ontario Not-for-Profit Corporations Act) which failed to be passed into law and yet seems to be the Holy Grail upon which the HOA have based their changes. I suppose it works for them.  Go here to read the hooey http://www.scahomeowners.com/ ;  click on the yellow box and check out NEW By-law #27 (page 11) and Change #20, directly subsequent, which appears to be the HOA Board of Directors’ justification of Rule #27.    

                                      STRONG & FREE

I am really grateful and happy that the country in which I live allows me to state my opinion, which I have done here and also gives me the Freedom of Speech to express it.  Good thing I’m no longer a member of the HOA, ‘cause I surely would be expelled for speaking my mind, which I’m happy to say, I still have.

April 17, 1982 Signing of our Constitution

                                          

                                       

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60

60

So you’ve hit 60 – 60 years old that is, not the speed limit, whether miles per hour or klicks.  Now what?

Well, speaking from experience (I sped past 60 a couple of years ago), it takes longer to get out of bed in the morning.  I find myself sitting on the edge, for oh about 5 minutes or so, just getting used to a new day.  Doesn’t matter that I’ve gotten out of bed approximately a QUARTER of a MILLION times before today.  Every day is a brand new experience and my body shouts that out, loud and clear every…single…morning.

Oh, that’s new, I think to myself, when the ‘good’ knee aches some.  I’ll have to remember to put that on the list to go over with my doctor the next time I see him, which since I turned 60, seems to be a lot more frequently than before. 

And, according my doctor, almost every ailment I have (and believe me I’ve come up with some new and weird things), will take time to get better.  The one thing that hits home, is the realization that the amount of time to heal after you turn 60, is at least quadruple the amount of time that was required to get better before you were 60.  Not fair.  But if you’re lucky enough to be retired, then at least you have more time to deal with stuff.

I woke up with a crick in my neck around New Year’s Day (it’s now almost the middle of March).  I, like millions of other people (I’m assuming), think to myself, “It’s just a crick.  It’ll go away.”  Wrong.  And even more wrong, in trying to make sure that the crick doesn’t get worse, I shove extra pillows under my head, while watching TV in bed.  I did that, maybe 2 or 3 nights and wouldn’t you know it, my neck is even worse, probably because my head was forced forward.  Now my neck is sore from the base right up to my skull.  Wonderful.  I think I sprained it.  Doesn’t matter how much I use my Professional T.E.N.S + E.M.S. + Pulse Massager system or heat up my Enchanted Bag, a smallish piece of cotton fabric, filled with a 2.35 pounds (1.07 kg) of rice, heat in microwave for 2 minutes, and which cost $20.00.  This pain in the neck just won’t go away. 

I’m so miserable, it’s a miracle I don’t kill someone or something.  I can’t even yawn  ‘cause it hurts my neck so bad.  Kinda weird when you think about how something as simple as yawning can hurt so much.  I start wondering about what could happen if you can’t yawn properly.  Would it cause some other weirdness?  Kinda like when you dream about dying.  Apparently, if you actually die in your dream, that’s it – game over – you’re deader than a doorknob.  There’s no waking up.  I’m not sure if it’s true or not.  It’s just something I remember someone telling me when I was young and naïve and it’s still something I believe to this day.  So if you can’t yawn properly, what effect does that have on the rest of your not-so-young body?  Will it start shutting down in other ways?  Apparently, yawning is not only an indication that you’re tired, there is also a theory that we yawn to cool down our brains.  What happens if we can’t yawn and our brain overheats? Does it explode like an egg in the microwave? BANG!!!!  I really don’t want to find out and continue yawning as best I can, even though it’s more like just a half a yawn, ‘cause I stop when it gets to the point of hurting.

I plod through the next 14 or so days, trying to yawn without wanting to kick the cat.  Nope, pain-free yawning is just not happening.  Then, one morning, sitting on the edge of my bed during quiet time, I have an Ah Ha! Moment and think about Dr. Christy, the best chiropractor in the world. Oh, I hope I can get a fast appointment.  Of course, being the best chiropractor in the world, also means that she’s usually fully booked.  I can hardly wait until 9:00 a.m. and about 2 minutes past, I punch her number into the phone and hold my breath while it rings.  Dr. Christy answers after about 3 rings (good thing) and I pour out my tale of woe.  She tsks a few times (which I deserve) and is able to give me an appointment for the next day.  I think she keeps a small time slot here and there for emergencies.  I breathe a huge sigh, in anticipation of getting some relief quickly.

                                                           *********

Tuesday morning, yay!  I get to see Dr. Christy and have my pain in the neck fixed.  Oh, if life was just that simple.  Apparently Mother Nature has a cruel streak and decided that an ice storm was in order for today.  Oh goody, a change from the endless snow storms we’ve had.  What a bitch!  I keep checking out the window, hoping against hope that the ice rain would stop and I could make the trek uptown.  Nope, not going to happen. 

I'm so disappointed, I want to cry.   By 10:00 a.m. I had to accept reality and call Dr. Christy to cancel.  She kinda figured I’d be calling and bless her, she was able to give me an appointment for the next afternoon.  I keep telling her she’s going to heaven.

                                                        

**********

Finally, time to leave!  I throw Sofie, The Toothless Wonder Dog in the car (she’s allowed to come in with me, ‘cause besides being a people chiropractor, Dr. Christy also treats 4-leggeds), and head out.  Driving is tough, ‘cause looking left and right is tough.  No matter.  What’s a little more pain until Dr. Christy fixes it?

We arrive at Barrie Family Chiropractic, which is in one of the old historic duplexes on Collier Street, overlooking Lake Simcoe. There is great karma here and I feel a sense of serenity as soon as I walk in.  Dr. Christy and I catch up on the past three or four years and then she goes over the new medical history form I’ve filled out.  As we talk, I remember the odd thing that didn’t make it on to the form, of course.  Then, the magic begins.  Dr. Christy starts by checking out not only the main ailment but also makes a careful examination of my whole back.

Right off the bat, she can tell that my back is not exactly in whack and treats me to what I refer to as The Rack, which stretches me back into proper alignment.  Wow!  A lower back ache on my left side, which I’ve ignored for about 3 years, is gone.  Just that alone is worth the trek to the Upper East Side.  The coup de grace though is the treatment she applies to my neck and although I sometimes think the cure is worse than the ailment, it doesn’t take long for my neck to start feeling better.

Well, today, about 2 and a half months after this whole sorry episode started, I saw my wonderful (and young) doctor.  Wouldn’t you know, the first words out of his mouth?  “Oh, it’ll heal and be just like it was before it happened, but it’ll take time.”  Yep, been there, done that, got the T-shirt!  Don’t ever wanna do it again.

Another couple of months and I should be as good as new.

                                          

 www.barriefamilychiro.com

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MORE THAN ELVIS & GENUINE HUGS

My friend, Martha, told me quite a while ago about an entertainer who sings just like Elvis.  She asked me if I would go to see him sing when he came back to The New Wild West, aka SCA.  I said that I might go and asked her to let

me know when he was going to be here.  Apparently, I also said that I would write about him in my blog.  Truthfully, I have zero recollection of that conversation, but Martha, all 80(ish) years of her, remembers and almost a year later coerces me into keeping my ‘maybe’ to her. 

Several weeks go by and Mary reminds me every time we bump into each other, which is fairly regularly, as we both have dogs and walk them mostly every day.  We make arrangements for me to pick her up on the big day, since her place was on the way to The Beam, an old barn which was converted many moons ago to a party room in North Park.

The concert is to start at 2:00 p.m. and finish at 5:00 p.m.  OMG, I thought to myself, how will I ever sit still for that long?  Also, I have found living in a community of silver heads, everyone just has to get where they’re going well in advance of whatever time it is they need to be there.  So, Martha instructs me to pick her up at 1:30, for the 5 minute (not even) car ride to The Beam.  Of course, I sometimes forget, it does take some silver heads a little longer to navigate the 3 or 4 steps out of their house and then up the longish ramp/stairs up to the venue.  I join the ranks of vehicles snaking their way up the incline and drop Martha off at the top, so she wouldn’t have to cane her way up all the steps.  That would have taken a while.  It was very cold out and the wind howling like a band of pissed off monkeys.  I wish I was Martha for a few minutes, after I park my car in the Outer Limits and run up the ramp, ducking around the cars coming down.  You just never know how well any of the drivers here in SCA can see.  I almost got smunched by someone just yesterday, when I was leaving South Park, by a man who obviously did not see the stop sign he had.  Sigh.

Elvis was already in the building when we arrive at 1:35 and Martha anxiously peers around the room to find her friend Wanda, who is saving us seats.  Not bad, three rows back from the stage.  I just know that we will be able to feel the sweat should Elvis choose to fling some our way during his performance.   We get settled and Martha introduces me to her other friend Sarah, sitting on the far side of Wanda.  

I’m a people watcher from way back and enjoy seeing the interaction, not only between people who live here in SCA and have known each other for a long time but also between Elvis and the people who have come to hear him sing.  Elvis is sharing hugs with abandon and obvious enjoyment and it’s hard to tell who’s enjoying the hugs the most. I have to say that I am a sucker for a genuine hug and wonder if I’ll get to share one with Elvis.

                       

       

                                                                             

                                                                                                              

Terry Chisholm, aka Elvis, spends the time before his show starts mingling with his obviously adoring audience.  He

doesn’t seem to notice me or the others capturing his image and if he does, certainly doesn’t seem to mind.  He is a man who appears to be in the moment with the people who have chosen to come and see him perform and there is nary a smart phone to be seen.  Actually, I did not see Terry whip one of those out at all, including during the intermission, where again, he chose to spend the time chatting with the people, sharing more hugs and snagging a coffee and a cookie (which were excellent by the way).  All that talent, beverages and great cookies and hugs, including one for yours truly, for just 12 bucks.  I’m thinking that sometimes it does pay to be old(er) and living here in SCA.                                 

The time just flies by and I think back to thinking how I would have to sit still for 3 hours.  I don’t think there was 2 seconds I sat still ‘cause Elvis, plus a bunch of his friends were definitely in the building.  Toe tapping, shoulders be-bopping to the music and rhythm and my entire body swaying to the golden tones and tunes of not only Elvis, ‘cause he brought company - Gary Puckett and The Union Gap, The Beatles, Kenny Rogers, Tom Jones, Roy Orbison and Englebert (who could ever forget him, with a last name like Humperdinck?), which brought back my teen years, to name a few.  Sigh.  I close my eyes and feel the pulse of the music and the passion of the artist saturating the words, the old barn boards just-a reverberating. Although Terry is described as a tribute artist to the legendary Elvis Presley, I have to say that I think Terry does it better. 

                       

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THE COLLECTOR

You know, I’ve often wondered why, when you have more than one ‘thing’, people like to think that you are now a Collector of that thing.  I figure, though, it’s because now that you Collect ‘something’, it makes it easier for those people to buy you gifts.  AND, of course, one day someday, because it’s a Collectible, it will (might) be worth lots of money.

 

    I managed to combine 2 collections in one

Think about it.  Companies subtly, yet invasively, perpetuate that Collector urge in people.  Cows, roosters, cars, trains, Mickey Mouse, thimbles, spoons, salt and pepper sets, rocks, stamps, beer cans and/or bottles and just plain old pop bottles or old bottles.  Coca Cola, Pepsi-Cola, KIK Cola. A & W Root Beer. Moustache cups, snuff boxes, perfume bottles.  It's endless and expensive.  AND, if you slip over the edge, just a leetle bit too far, you get to star on Hoarding: Buried Alive.

I remember as a rebellious teen, I took up smoking.  Hmmm, how to make sure my snoopy mom didn’t find the contraband?  I started collecting empty cigarette packages, of course.  I used my dad’s old, khaki coloured, metal army footlocker to store my collection in.  It didn’t take my mother very long to find my stash though.  I’m not totally sure how she figured it out but I’ve always thought that one of my three sisters ratted me out.  That was the end of that collection.

Tins used to be one of MY favourites and I had a lot of them.  It started out that most, if not all of my tins were for food stuffs; crackers, cookies, baking soda, Oxo.  Chocolate, of course, is a big one.  Quality Street is one of the prettier ones.

Then, don’t ‘They’ come out with small power tools in a tin.  Blew me away to see that and I actually have one.  It’s a dual purpose gift – useful and satisfies the tin collecting itch.

                       

Despite being determined to re-home my tins, which probably numbered over 100 (I never counted), slowly and surely over the 4+ years since I decluttered before moving, I have once again started ‘collecting’ things in tins or just the odd, interesting tin.  A few I actually saved when I was thinning out the herd - just a couple of my favourites.  Somehow, I think that by keeping just a few, it created the catalyst to still being a Collector.  Maybe it’s considered a soft addiction?  Hmm, I wonder if there is rehab for that?

                  

 I think the wire ones are trying to pull/push
 the plastic one out of the nest

Collecting anything kinda reminds me of the old wire coat hangers.  Didn’t it seem like all of a sudden you had hundreds of them in the hall closet, when just the night before, there were only 3?  What happens at night, in the dark, in the closet?  The wire hangers get together, maybe a ménage a trois, creating all those instant offspring which promptly come tumbling out of the closet as soon as you open the door.   AND, of course, they are so hopelessly tangled up, that they form, in some bizarre way, an abstract sculpture, which you’ll be able to sell on e-bay or Amazon for hundreds, if not thousands of $$$$$$.  You just know it will.

Have you noticed though that wire hangers seem to be disappearing?  Which will only add to the collectability of them, as sightings become rarer.  Maybe it’s the greenhouse effect?  My theory is that it’s the car manufacturers which have created this scarcity of wire hangers.  After all, as soon as ‘They’ changed the design of the locking mechanism on cars, to the now, new sleeker-looking design located on the side door panel, instead of on the top of it, even if you could find a wire hanger to try and slide through the miniscule window opening ‘cause you’ve left the keys in the ignition and locked yourself out, it won’t help.  You can’t even see what you’re doing ‘cause of the angle of the dangle and even if you could, there is no way in hell you’ll be able to hook it on the lock to pull it open.  I’m thinking that the car industry revamped the lock so that it would be harder for car thieves to use this time-honoured method to break into your car but I happen to know that car thieves used a jimmy, not a wire coat hanger.  It’s a lot faster.  Nowadays, they’re even more sophisticated and use modern technology to get a read on your wireless key signal, trap it and then pop the locks open the moment your back is turned and steal anything in your car that isn’t nailed down, including your new leather gloves, which was a treat to yourself and your kid’s french homework.  WTF?  I almost always lock the doors manually, thereby increasing the odds of locking my keys in there.  Thank goodness Roadside Assistance was invented.

We have come sooooooooo far from the lowly wire coat hanger.  And of course, along with the advances, comes the financial cost.  A car ‘key fob’ costs around $250.00 at the dealer.  Around $70.00 for a generic one.  Whatever happened to a ‘normal’ metal key, which you could get made at practically any store which sells hardware, for $1.98?  I used to have a couple of spare key sets (one for the house and one for the car) stashed outside, just in case.  Now I can’t afford to do that and even if I could, how would those electronic marvels survive the temperature fluctuations and extremes of our Canadian weather, even if sealed in a Ziploc baggie, secreted in a tin, then buried in the garden?  And then try to find it under 4 feet of snow.

I digress.  So even when you think you’ve beaten back the demons of being a Collector, have you really?  Or, is the urge still there, waiting for you to forget that you’re not Collecting anymore?  It’s insidious.  Just when you think it’s safe to ‘go out there’ again, you know, deep down in your heart and that teeny, tiny little region of your brain, I think  the Amygdala, that it’s not.  It’s just like being an ex-smoker – that first drag after having quit for a while, whether days, months or even years, may make you feel a little sick but the second one is easier and by the time you’ve had 3 or 4 puffs on your friend’s ciggy, you’re hooked again.  You just won’t admit it for a while.  Soon you’re smoking OP’s (bumming off of Other People).  Pretty soon you’re buying your own again.  These days, I’m told it costs about $12.00 a pack.  I’m soooo glad I stopped smoking almost 15 years ago.  It’s the only way I could afford to buy a house and make the mortgage payments!  And buy my tins.  And my Mickey stuff.