Posted on September 14, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment

We live in a capitalist society.  We buy and sell goods.  In some cases we barter goods and services.  And, of course, there is the ever present “underground economy” that thrives on cash transactions, far away from the peering eyes of CRA (IRS Lite).  And if that isn’t enough economic activity, there are flea markets and yard sales.  You are either a yard sale type or you’re not.  There’s no in-between on this one.

In our house, one person lives to go “yard sailing” and it’s not me.

I stared at the counter and saw what had to be the world’s smallest slow cooker.  This was on a Saturday morning so I had no doubt where it had come from.  After a long and reasonably happy marriage, I have learned that not being inquisitive is a good thing.  But, I’ll admit, I did the old head scratching thing wondering why we needed a dwarf slow cooker to go along with papa slow cooker, mama slow cooker and baby slow cooker.  I mean, how many slow cookers does a married couple need at this stage of the proceedings with all of the eaglets out on their own?

More than three, I guess.

I have learned a lot about the sub culture of yards sales.  You can never have too many of one item.  Case in point:  Iggle Piggle. Even Ken Jennings of Jeopardy fame probably doesn’t know who Iggle Piggle is so you can be excused for having that stunned look on your face.  Iggle Piggle is a character from a British children’s show called “In the Night Garden.”  Rather than have me try and describe him (her?), just go ahead and Google the name.

One of our granddaughters lived with us for two years and regularly watched this show.  She became fond of all the characters but none more so than Iggle Piggle. To satisfy this craving, my wife bought an Iggle Piggle doll, and then, the feeding frenzy started.  In relative short order, the number of dolls multiplied, like mitosis on steroids, most of them purchased at yard sales.

Why?  Sorry.  I don’t understand calculus either.

Which brings me back to the teeny weeny slow cooker.  After two days of it tantalizing me from the kitchen counter, I had to ask the question.  And I did.  And I got an answer.

How often do you use a slow cooker?  Once a month?  Five times a year?  Or is this a wedding gift that you have pondered re-gifting because you already have enough of them to cater a wedding?

I was told that this newest prized possession was for the use of a new tenant in our household, an education student.  “And what are the chances that he will need this cooking vessel on the same day that we have all three of ours on the go?”  As is the custom, my comment was dismissed.  A stern rebuke was not required.  The Look said it all.

Too many crocks spoil the broth.

Posted on September 10, 2013 under Storytelling with no comments yet

When you live in a university town, there is a constant ebb and flow that follows the school year.  Students arrive en masse in September and leave in late April.  You see a lot of moving vans and teary eyed parents.  The tears are a mixture of sadness and apprehension that their children are preparing to leave the nest forever.  At least that’s the hope.

After a year or two of living on campus, many students opt for off-campus housing in the form of rental units.  There’s only one thing worse than helping your children move and that is the delicate task of helping them clean their apartment when the lease is up.  If you want to see tears, watch a parent clean up after a horde of quasi-adults.

There is a hierarchy of dirt.  There is our own, our children’s and finally, that of total strangers.

We can all deal with our own squalor, as bad as it might appear.  We have moved a little bit more than the average family.  Once it was a move to the county to accommodate a flock of chickens and a few roosters that graced our property in town.  There is a longer version to that story including our haphazard attempts at corralling and transporting the flock.

At the best of times, doing the final cleanup in your own home is soul destroying work.  But it can be worse.  A lot worse.

Inevitably, your children will want to leave home.  Some say they will be gone for good by the time they reach the age of thirty.  It starts in high school when they plead to share a summer rental with buddies.  A piece of advice to parents: under no circumstances, allow your teenage child to do a sublet with buddies.  Ever.  Even if they guarantee never to come home again.  One memorable year, we were pressed into action and undertook the cleanup of the rental at the end of the summer.  It is hard to describe what we encountered upon entering the house but, by all accounts, we should have been wearing hazardous waste suits.  Fukushima looked like the Public Gardens in comparison.

As bad as it seems, cleaning up after yourself and your offspring is mere child’s play compared to cleaning a complete strangers’ grunge.  Recently, a friend moved to Halifax and was taking up residence in an apartment.  The sign outside the building said “ready for occupancy”.  Unfortunately it did not contain the disclaimer that the preferred occupants would be recent hires of Molly Maid.

The young woman, about to attend law school, took one look at the filth left by the predecessors and was already pondering her first law suit.  A small tear welled in the corner of her eye.  She and her mother rolled up their sleeves and formed their own version of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.  The place was rendered spotless with the help of Mr. Clean and a bottle of Yellowtail merlot.

I would like to be filthy rich some days.  If I could just skip the filthy part.

Posted on September 7, 2013 under Storytelling with 3 comments

Once again, marijuana is stealing all of the headlines for all the wrong reasons.  The leader of the Federal Liberal Party, the man who might be our Prime Minister someday, announced truthfully that he has smoked marijuana.  Now there’s shocking and ground breaking news.  He may have even inhaled.  Maybe we can apply under the “Freedom of Information Act “and ask his respirologist, just to be on the safe side.  If this is his worst vice, let’s call an election tomorrow.

I was pondering all this chatter in the news these past days as I stood in line, embracing my wholesome sandwich.  “Who did and who didn’t” seems to be all the buzz.  I noticed that the lineup wasn’t moving very fast.

Have any of you read the classic story “Pride and Prejudice”?  The opening sentence goes like this: “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man of good fortune must be in want of a wife”.   Jane Austen must of have been smoking something when she wrote this.  A single man with money wants to stay single and keep his money.

I have my own version of this famous quote. “It is a truth universally acknowledged that I will always choose the wrong lineup in a store”.  This is especially true when there is only one cashier.  The law of averages is not working in my favor when this happens.

I have parted ways with many of my vices.  I eschewed all smokeables over 35 years ago.  I haven’t had a drink of alcohol in years and recently I gave up the worst vice of all: sweets.  I attend mass twice each weekend and at this rate will soon be considered a candidate for a monastery if I give up the last of life’s great pleasures… lottery tickets.  Gotcha!  I know what you were thinking.

On this particular day, I didn’t have time to pack a lunch so I ran across Main Street to pick up a delightful sandwich at a small convenience store.  I took my place in a small lineup and within minutes the lineup swelled to six people.  Unfortunately, the first person in the lineup was clutching lottery tickets.

I don’t have anything against lottery tickets but there ought to be one place in the town where all the lottery ticket freaks can hang out.  It is painful enough watching people spending the equivalent of a week’s grocery money on lottery tickets and smokes without having to watch them lay out their tickets and have each and every one validated.  You think they don’t know already exactly to the penny how much they’ve won?

After an exasperating ten minutes of watching this charade, it came time for payment.  The combination and exchange of cash, debit and lottery winnings would have befuddled the governor of the Bank of Canada.  I was all but ready to sacrifice my sandwich to a sound flogging of the customer.

I took a deep breath, exhaled, and the ordeal ended.  That is, until the next person in the lineup fumbled with her purse and hauled out a wad of lottery tickets.

Someday, I expect the store manager will find a mouldy turkey breast sandwich, sitting amongst the “Guns and Ammo” magazines.