OLD DOG...NEW TRICKS

I consider myself a fairly smart fella. Not "Get rich at 30 and retire" kinda smart but not "Put a knife in an electrical outlet" kinda smart either. My friends think I am a smart ass, my co-workers think I am a smart alec, and my wife says I am the smartest person she knows...but she doesn't get out much. My Mom, on the other hand, thinks I'm a horse's ass. Which, of course, doesn't change the fact that she thinks I'm fairly smart. (Because it reflects well on her, I think.)

But, smart as I think I am, I am perfectly capable of performing amazingly dumb things.

Yesterday, after picking up my Extra Large Timmie's Dark Roast coffee, I proceeded to perform one such dumb thing. As I approached my parking spot at work I wondered...How good are my brakes? A quick look around showed no traffic anywhere so I slammed on the binders. The results? My brakes are friggin' AWESOME! You know what else is friggin' awesome? Physics! The car stopped, I was prepared so I stopped. My coffee, however, was taken by surprise and vaulted forward out of the cup holder with enough force to remove the lid mid flight. Wow, I did not know my dashboard and console had so many hot liquid attracting nooks and crannies. Ten minutes and half a box of tissues later I had most of the mess cleaned up, except for the carpet, which I'm sure is going to remind me of my superior intellect for days to come.

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The other day the intrepid Explorer and I were sipping our coffee and chatting (about what I don't remember) when she said something that I found rather surprising. In response to what she said I replied with a resounding "Yikes!" Yes, I actually said yikes. To which she responded with laughter that almost made coffee come out her nose. "Did you really just say Yikes?" she asked, as she giggled merrily away. I did, and for a good reason. I have lately found myself peppering my daily speech, more and more, with certain words that are not generally used in polite company. Yikes was a conscious effort on my part to clean up my language.
But, you know what? F**k that Bulls**t. I'm a God@#$% adult and I'll speak any f***ing way I want...oh wow...did I really just type that?

"YIKES!"

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I am what most people would consider a fairly tall guy. Not a giant, but at 6 foot it does make me taller than average. What causes me grief, though, is I am married to a short girl. Don't get me wrong, I love it when I hug my sweety-pie and can kiss her on the top of her head but the height difference does cause issues.

I can't count the number of time I have had to contort myself trying to get into the driver's seat after she has been driving my car. Nor the number of times I have stopped whatever I was doing to come to her aide to fetch something she can't reach on a shelf...not even the top shelf at that. (On the plus side, anything I want to hide I put on top of the fridge.) But the real headache, and I mean that literally, is the rolling shutters on our patio doors.

These shutters roll up and down giving us some security when we are out and also some insulation from heat or cold. The problem is that my honey bunny, the love of my life, the ying to my yang, rolls the damn thing up only high enough for her to walk through. I have, on numerous occasions, smacked my head on the damn thing walking out onto the deck to join her, swore profusely, turned around in a huff to stomp back into the house just to smack my head again on the way back in.

Yeah, yeah, I know I said I was a fairly smart fella earlier, and I should have learned my lesson by now, but even though I have never shoved a knife in an electrical outlet, I have used one to dig out burning toast stuck in a plugged in toaster. So there ya go.

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I have come to the conclusion that what makes my smart phone a SMART phone is the damned thing is smarter than me. I have a laptop, a smart TV, a Kobo e-reader, a stereo system, a Bluetooth motorcycle helmet communicator system, a work computer with twin monitors, and didn't have a problem learning how to use any of them. But that phone, that damned phone, is going to be the death of me. I can make calls and text and that is about it. I know it can do a million other things, I have seen the commercials, but I just cannot seem to get it to do anything else in a consistent, when I want it, manner. Pictures I can't delete (no, not that kind...pervs), constant pocket dialing, functions I can't access, apps I can't access, apps I can't delete, functions that, I swear to god, are using words in a foreign language. Why don't I read the manual you may ask. Because there is no manual. The stupid manual is a function on the phone and I can't figure out how to access the functions on the phone. Go to "Settings" someone told me. Been there, done that, lost all my "Contacts" info and had to start that miserable process all over again.

I am not a Luddite, nor an idiot but, good lord, the phone came in a box (mostly empty space) bigger than the box my last pair of shoes came in. Surely, they could have squeezed a printed manual in that thing.

BITS AND BITES.

God knows I am the last person on this planet who should be discussing what is or isn't stylish for men. I have been seen in public un-showered, in sweatpants, in sandals and black socks, and have mixed plaids and stripes...sometimes all at the same time. I hardly ever care what guys do in the name of style or fashion. Tattoos and peircings? Fine. Long hair, short hair, pony tail, bald spot, comb-over, shaved head? Sure, whatever. Facial hair of any style or lack thereof? No prob. However...the Man Bun! The Man Bun? What the hell is wrong with you, dude? Man Bun? Jesus!

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An interesting conversation with the lovely Explorer the other night.
Explorer: What are you eating?
Me: Fruit with a little bit of grains and dairy.
Explorer: (Looking closer) That's half an apple pie with ice cream!
Me: Well, not half and it is made from fruit and grains and dairy.
Explorer: It's bloody huge and you are going to have a heart attack and die.
Me: But you don't like pie so if I don't eat it it will go to waste.
Explorer: It certainly will be going to your waist you silly old git.
Me: I think my left arm is going numb.

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The Explorer and I are now empty nesters. Kind of sad when the last brat leaves the house but there are some nifty advantages. Lights out in rooms nobody is in. Hot water whenever you want it. Dishwasher runs every 3 days instead of twice a day. But the best, oh, the best of all...FOOD. There is food in the house. I can buy myself a treat on Sunday and 4 days later think about eating it and, oh saints be praised, there it is, right where I put it, just waiting for me. 4 days later...can you imagine that? Not if you have kids in the house you can't.

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ADVENTURES AT THE GROCERY STORE.

I am lounging about this Father's Day doing Father's Day stuff; which is, for the most part, nothing. The boys have called to wish me a happy dad's day and I have called my own dad to do the same. As far as I'm concerned my Sunday obligations are complete and there should be no reason why I can't concentrate on the "doing nothing" part for the rest of the day. Of course, I am married to a gorgeous lady who, on occasion, thinks otherwise.

The Lovely Explorer is spending the day organizing her basement space and doing laundry. As one of the prime ingredients in a successful laundry day is laundry soap it behooves the laundry doer to have enough on hand. Oops. Someone is no longer doing nothing, someone is off to the grocery store. I ask if we need anything else and she tells me no so off I go...the adventure begins.

As I am a fan of cooking I know one does not just go into the grocery store for one item. It cannot be done; just ain't possible. In anticipation of this I grab a shopping cart and notice something new. Safeway is no longer requiring money to take a cart. Hurray for Safeway. I also notice said carts have changed shape. The bottom rack that was so conducive to standing on whilst barrelling down an aisle like a teenage (or middle-age) hooligan has been shortened to the point where you cannot reach it with your feet. I am now delegated to the ranks of well-behaved adulthood while in Safeway. Boo, Safeway.

Right, fine, I shall behave. Knowing full well how my fuzzy little brain works I head straight to the section of the store with laundry stuff. If I don't get the only thing I'm here for right off the bat I get distracted by shiny things and walk out $300.00 later without what I went in for. Laundry soap in cart...check...time for some wandering. As expected, 30 minutes later and a full cart of not laundry stuff I am in search of an open till.

Everybody who has ever shopped knows what comes next. Why are there 12 checkouts but only ever 2 or 3 open? I have been in large department stores and grocery stores all over western North America and it's always the same...10-15 checkouts and only 2-3 open...ever. I have been in stores early in the morning, late at night, weekdays and weekends and it's always the same.

At this point, my question is not where is the staff to man these checkouts, my question is why are there so many checkouts in the first place? Who designs these things? Every square foot of a grocery store (or big box store) is designed to generate sales. What the hell happened here at the checkouts?

"Hey Bob. I got all the designs in place for the new Safeway except the checkouts. Want me to finish up before I go home?"

"Nah, Jim, head on home, I'll get the new guy to finish up."

"The new guy? But, all he's ever designed are major Calgary road overpasses and intersections!"

"Yeah, this could be fun. Have a good night."

And on that note, Happy Father's Day to all the fathers out there.

Love you Dad.

THIS AND THAT AND KARMA TOO.

The other day as I was on my way home I merged off 16th avenue onto 52nd street and pulled in behind a lady in a mini van. It warmed my heart to see her right signal light was on as we approached the next intersection. Nice to see some people still know what the damn things are for. Then she drove straight through the intersection with blinker merrily blinking away...sigh.

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Habit is an interesting thing. As I was cooking up something that required one cup of water, I grabbed a measuring cup, filled it with water, poured the water, then put the measuring cup in the sink for washing. Then something made me stop and ponder...why would I wash something, in tap water, that had nothing in it but tap water? Why not just dry it? How many times have I washed this darn cup like that? Then I mentally shrugged my shoulders and washed the cup.

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A customer was telling me he had driven out to his cottage, loaded the family dirt bikes and ATVs into his toy hauler trailer and brought them back to do a bunch of maintenance, then proceeded to complain to me about the price of the oil filters I was selling him. Big truck and trailer? Cabin by the lake? Dirt bikes and ATVs? Boy I can sure sympathize...oh wait, I'm working on a Saturday, instead of riding, and politely listening to you bitch about $9.99.

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Finally bit the (expensive) bullet and replaced my motorcycle helmet. I really didn't want to as the old one was so comfy, I could wear it for hours. But the darn things should be replaced every 5-6 years and I've had the helmet for almost 9. Gone for a couple of rides in the new one and, well, it smells funny. I guess it's the mini version of new car smell. I hate breaking in new stuff. Grumpy old fartedness at its worst.

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Our lovely almost daughter-in-law left her cell phone at work and had no way of getting it back for a couple of days. The Explorer teasingly commented (to me) that people who only have a cell phone, and no land line, should be more careful of where they leave the thing. Not 1/2 an hour later as she was preparing to go out, the Explorer was wandering around the house looking for her cell phone. Calling the cell phone from the house phone garnered no results. Nor did a search of the car. Several calls to the last few places she was at finally resulted in success...it was at our son and daughter-in law's house...yes, the same daughter-in -law. Karma, yup, she's a bitch.

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Today is Mother's Day and I want to end this post with a big "I LOVE YOU MOM!" Thanks for raising me right, none of this stuff is your fault...I blame Dad.

CARROT CAKE AND OTHER CULINARY ADVENTURES

I am a big fan of cake. Eating them, that is. I couldn't bake a cake if my life depended on it, not even from a packaged cake mix. I don't know why but whenever I try cake baking something goes horribly wrong and I have no cake. Fortunately, my Mom, my wife, and my sister-in -law are excellent bakers so I can usually whine and pout till one of them takes pity on me and I have cake.

One of my favorite cakes is carrot cake. Not just any carrot cake but the one the lovely Explorer will make for me when I have been a particularly good boy. A couple of weeks ago I see her gathering all the ingredients together and...oh boy, oh boy, cake for me. Not so. She is baking one for a lovely older couple down the street for his birthday. Rats. "Not to worry" says she. "More to follow". Sure enough, we are having a large family gathering and she is preparing individual serving versions of the cake...Yippee. Again, not to be. I turn my back for one minute, the hungry hoards descend, no cake for me. "Poor baby" She says."I shall make one just for you" And, sure enough, because I have somehow offended the Gods, the Explorer has one of her very rare baking flops...no cake for me.

MOM...I need cake!

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A short break while I whip up a batch of Rice Krispie squares. Fortunately, this is not baking, just melting and stirring. I can do that.

There, all better now.

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About a million years ago when the Explorer and I were living in Grande Prairie I had a brilliant idea. It was a lazy Saturday and we had a fresh pork roast waiting in the fridge. It was about 4ish in the afternoon when I popped it in the oven. Meanwhile, says brilliant me, we can go out to the theatre and see that movie we wanted to see. When we get back we can enjoy a nice dinner. So, we locked the little guy in the closet with a bowl of water and off we went. (Oh relax, he was fine, he was at Grandma and Grandpa's)

After the movie we decided (roast completely forgotten) why not go for dinner as well. Well, with the kid safely chained up in the basement (Oh for God's sake, read the above), we decided what the heck, we have time, let's go. And so we did.

More hours later we are driving home and...PORK ROAST!!! Holy Crapola! I may have broken a few traffic laws heading home, all the while looking for smoke and flames in the distance. Made it home to an intact residence and a shrunken, blackened pork roast. Not sure why the place wasn't filled with smoke but counted my lucky stars. The moral of the story? Never, ever, under any circumstances...ooh look...shiny thing.

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The above tale notwithstanding, I think I am a pretty good cook. However, I have always worried what others thought about my abilities. Do they really like my cooking or are they just being polite? A bunch of years ago I had the opportunity to publicly display my abilities. A friend of mine was the head chef at a local hotel and had hired me as a weekend dishwasher so I could make a few extra bucks. He taught me a bunch of stuff and I graduated to doing some line cooking. This ultimately lead to me throwing on a chef's hat and heading out to the Sunday brunch omelette station. There I was, cooking to order, in front of a crowd, never once a complaint and often a compliment! And what did ths do for my confidence? Not a damn thing. I still wonder; am I good or are they polite? Well, at least I never poisoned anybody...I think.

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I am sure some of you are thinking, "Hey, a whole blog and no motorcycles...HAHAHAHAHA.

Years ago the explorer and I were out for a motorcycle ride (there ya go) when we stopped for some lunch at this hole in the wall place in a small town. You could see into the kitchen from the dining room and we watched in anticipation as the cook quickly made up the fresh patties for our burgers and cut up fresh potatoes for our fries. Lord, that was a good burger and fries. We both remember that place to this day except for two things...what was the name of the restaurant and what bloody town was it in?

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Right, that's it for now. Gotta go, them steaks won't BBQ themselves...hope the Explorer likes it.

CATS VS DOGS VS...

We here in Canada are a nation of pet owners and as such the burning pet question is almost always...

"Are you a cat person or a dog person?"

Ask that question anywhere in Canada and most people will not only know what you are talking about but also have pretty strong feelings one way or another. Except, of course, that small minority that says "Either/or; both are delicious." But we'll leave that tale (tail?) for another day.

I, personally, am a dog kinda guy, my lovely wife is a dog gal and, because I raised them right, my 2 sons are dog guys. I have had dogs from the time I was a kid to now; with only a single misguided year, living on the dark side, when I had a cat...who was weird. He used to sleep in the bathroom sink. Stupid cat. Anyway, I am a dog guy.

Some people, so I've heard, are both dog and cat people...at the same time...which makes me wonder, "How do you afford all the meds you require to keep that split personality of yours under control?" Just seems wrong to me. I mean, there's your dog, a tail waggin', face lickin', bundle of fur and unquestioning love and on the other hand, a spittin', scratchin', disdainful (unless hungry) spawn of Satan cat. You've got to be nuts to have both. I suppose you might say the two extremes balance each other out but...you would be wrong.

Then there are those folks, way out on the fringe, with strange and unnatural ideas of what constitutes a pet. Fish? Tartar sauce and french fries, not pets. Rabbits, chickens, small pigs, big pigs or cows? Bar-B-Que, not pets. Guinea pigs, hamsters, or rats? Lab testing not pets. Birds, lizards or spiders? Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you? Definitely not pets!

And then there are horses.

Horses kind of fall into a special category for me. I don't like them close up as they are stubborn, face eating, bone breaking, natural born killers with a species wide grudge against me. Don't know why, but they do. However, they are beautiful animals (from afar) and girls like them. Mine included. And I like rodeo. So I understand owning a horse but I wouldn't call them pets...scary beasties...not pets.

Oh...almost forgot...Snakes! Got a friend who loves snakes and has had them as pets. She is a lovely , kind person. But snakes? Nope. Nope. Nope.

So, to re-cap, dogs are the only proper pet. If you do not like dogs but think you still want a pet...get a motorcycle.

BLOODY KNUCKLES AND A BRUISED EGO.

The other day a friend posted this on my Facebook timeline. I got a giggle out of it and we started nattering back and forth. Another friend chimed in and the conversation took an interesting turn. It seems I talk about motorcycles, well, alot. In person, on Facebook and in my blogs. Enough so that some people notice.

The good natured teasing I was subjected to by my friends about this didn't bother me, I am an adult after all, but it did cause me to reflect a bit. Do I go on too much about my passion for riding motorcycles? I have been riding for over 40 years and even work in the industry. Bikes are a big part of my life. But do people think I'm a one trick pony? Is there nothing else of note in my life worthy of writing about? Well, of course there is.

Quantum physics, for example. Very interesting stuff. Part of the universe in which I reside and, therefore, worthy of note. Duly noted then. Happy now guys?

Having now established that I truly am a well rounded person with a multitude of interests we can now move forward.

 I have often made fun of the goofy things customers say or do when they come into the store. Am I better than these folks? Smarter? More knowledgeable? Nope. And to prove it here is a little tale of what happened to me a couple of years ago.

I was getting the bike ready for the first ride of the year by doing an oil change. I knew the battery was old and needed replacing as well and that would have to be done first. Off to my dealer I went and purchased a new fully charged battery. After completing the arduous (and knuckle busting) task of swapping old for new I fired the old girl up, warmed it, checked all the lights and signals, shut her down and got the oil changed.

Yippee...ready to ride. Grabbed all my gear, hopped on the bike, turned on the ignition and hit the start button. Nothin'. She wouldn't even turn over. What the hell? Took off all my gear and stared at the bike for a bit wondering what might be wrong. Better recheck the battery connections. God, I hate taking that battery out. Okay, more bloody knuckles later and all connections are good. Put it back together, hop on, turn the key, push start...nothin'.

As I'm not exactly electrically inclined I admit defeat. I have reached the end of my diagnostic abilities and need expert advice. Off to the dealer I go for help. It's busy so I wait patiently in line for my turn. Once at the counter the following conversation ensues:

Me: My bike wont start. New battery, All the lights turn on but it won't turn over at all.
Him: What's the bike?
Me: 2004 Suzuki 1500 Intruder.
Him: There is an engine kill switch in the kickstand. The kickstand needs to be up for the bike to start. Did you lift the kickstand?
Me: (embarrassed silence then whispering) I actually know that and...well...thank you for not laughing at me.
Him: Dude, you ain't even the first one with this situation today.
Customer behind me: Been there, done that.

Back at home, gear up, hop on, turn the key, LIFT KICKSTAND and push start...Vroom....life is good.

The moral of this story? Quantum physics is interesting and somebody should write something about it.