The Man In The Brown Suit

In the brief time that I've been a transit operator, I've seen many different locations all around town.  Places that I, otherwise, would never have seen if I were doing anything else.  I've driven down new streets and seen many new things.  In my travels I've spotted new restaurants and eateries that I've since tried. Some good, some not so much.  I've seen parks and roadways and all sorts of places that would otherwise go unnoticed.  Especially for someone, like myself, who rarely ventures out if I don't otherwise need to.

In addition to all the new scenery, I've also revisited old memories of past haunts.  One route takes me down Ruth Street, past a location where me and friends would get drunk at, then stumble home as we lived close-by.  The route I'm currently doing in my afternoons, takes me past a house where I lived...  HOLY SHIT!!  Over twenty years ago, now.  I remember I moved out the spring following 9/11.  (*Holy crap...  Sorry.  This realization just freaked me out a little.) 😲

I lived in the basement suite of 70 Laurentian Drive.  It was a nice little place.  A one bedroom, with a private entrance.  It had a cool room, under the stairs and a bar in the living room, where I stored movies and shit.  Unfortunately, there was a washer and dryer behind a door in my kitchen, which the upstairs landlord used, so they'd frequently barge into my domicile unannounced and I'd mostly feel awkward.  Just imagine relaxing in your underwear, watching TV, when your landlord comes booming down the stairs.  It was ridiculous, to say the least.

I had moved into that place after moving from the afore mentioned house where I'd stumble home from the bar to.  I worked nights and needed the peace and quiet that I wasn't getting from where I was.  For the most part, everything worked well.  Come home from work and the landlord and his wife would be gone already.  I'd wind down a little bit watching TV, then I'd retire to my dark bedroom for a few hours of shut eye. 

One day, I'd come home from work, the last night before a couple days off.  As per the usual, I'd camp out in the arm chair, staring at the TV.  About an hour or so in to my programs, I started hearing foot steps upstairs.  None of the cars belonging to the landlord and his wife were parked in the driveway, so they must have company staying upstairs, I thought.  All day long, however, these thunderous footsteps would wander from the living room, which was directly above mine, to the kitchen.  Then out of the kitchen and down the hall to the far bedrooms, also located above my similar rooms.  The kitchen was above mine, as was the hallway, bathroom and so on.  The footsteps continued in this pattern all day long.  Heavy steps, that echoed throughout the house.  If I was going to get any sleep, it wasn't going to be that afternoon.

From about nine in the morning until about thirty minutes before the landlord and his spouse would return home,  A couple hours later, Denny, the landlord, came down the stairs to run a load of laundry.  We exchanged pleasantries, then I asked him who the houseguest upstairs was?  Denny cocked his head to the side like the confused mutt that he was, forcing me to explain what I was referencing to.  

"All day," I explained to him, "I've been listening to footsteps that walked heavily from the living room, to the kitchen to the far end of the house and back."  I explained that it'd been occurring all day long and that I wasn't able to get any sleep because of the loud racket.

With a look of clarity on his face, Denny leaned back against the door jam that separated the small kitchen from the living room.  He followed that facial expression with a look of hesitation, then explained that there wasn't any houseguest roaming about upstairs.  He paused for a moment then said, "It was probably the man in the brown suit."

Denny had only recently gotten married to his bride, moving into her existing residence.  (For the life of me, I can't remember her name), had lived in the house for many years, residing there even before meeting her, now, husband, Denny.  He continued to explain how in addition to the odd occurrences that happen from time-to-time, there have been a couple actual sightings.   Most notable was his wife's introduction to the "man in the brown suit". 

Apparently, she'd been awoken from a deep slumber by an unnerving presence.  When she'd opened her eyes, she saw a tall man in a brown suit looming over top of her as she laid in bed.  Frightened for her life, she sprang out of bed and ran to the kitchen to grab a weapon to protect herself, only to discover that she was alone in the house.  Nobody, not a soul...  Wait a second!  Over the years, she'd grown accustom to the presence and never gave it much thought beyond that.

I was taken aback by the response to my query.  It didn't scare me, to be honest, and moving forward from that time, I'd continue to hear odd things, but whatever it was or whoever it was, never ventured down the stairs, so I was never bothered directly.

Eventually, the landlord asked me to move out as they were looking to convert the basement suite into a lounge area for their kids to hang out in.  On the day that I was to move out of the tiny apartment, the ghost upstairs was having a fit.  I don't know why it chose that day in particular, but I had a feeling that it was protesting my leaving.  Not that it was attached to me or had any sort of connection, but I always got the feeling that whatever it was, had a deep dislike of Denny, which as I got to know him over the brief time that I'd lived there, I could understand.  Denny was a real boob.

As I sat, waiting for family to come over and help me move, I sat at the bottom of the stairs and listened as the spirit upstairs slammed ever cupboard door in [their] kitchen.  I don't know how many doors were up there, but rest assured, every last one was being slammed repeatedly.

I've had many encounters with the paranormal over the years.  In recent years, some of it occurs in my very own house.  Many weird and strange things happen here, at home.  Other stuff has happened when I was at work, in a variety of vocations, even as a bus driver, I've had some strange shit happen.  I'm not psychic, but I do believe that I'm sensitive to the presence of weird shit.  No time to expand on that subject, at the moment, but I will delve into that shit at a later time.

For now and for the next two months, I'll continue to drive past the ol' homestead and every time I do, like a person with Tourette's, I look at the house and utter the words, "The man in the brown suit."  I would not be shocked if I were driving past one day and actually saw a man in a brown suit peering out the window. 😄

Taking The Plunge

Spoke to Whitney care of Rock 102 FM, today.  Yesterday the discussion revolved much around her co-host, Sully.  A Vancouver transplant, Sully had never experienced a real winter.  Not a harsh winter like the ones that Saskatchewan is notoriously known for.  There's a reason why the late-Roddy Piper used to refer to Saskatoon as the coldest place on Earth.  Clearly it is not, but sometimes it does feel like it.

Saskatoon experienced a warmer than usual autumn and early winter.  The snow really never flew until after the New Year had already begun.  It was a nice change from the ordinary, but in the back of my mind, I knew that we, people, were going to pay dearly for the good weather.  Last Wednesday, proved just that as temperatures took a nasty plunge.  The frigid polar freeze timed itself perfectly for Sully, who despite being warned of how terrible the weather would be, hopped on a plane and flew, he and his family, to Hawaii.  Good timing, on his part.  Perfectly timed, as by the time his jet lands in Saskatoon coming back, the cold snap will have passed almost entirely and Sully will have missed the worst of it.

So the discussion on the radio, yesterday, was revolving around how to get back at Sully.  People were calling in suggestions on how to further his journey into being Saskatchewanized, but not much by way of punishment for missing the cold spell.  

While flipping through Facebook a few days ago, I saw a post from a friend.  She and a gal pal, donned in swimwear, took to the South Saskatchewan for their own polar plunge.  I don't know how it turned out for them, but it intrigued me all the same.  A Polar Plunge, I texted in to the station.  Sully should jump in the South Saskatchewan, just as my friend had, and that should be quite chilly.  I was immediately prompted to call in, but as I was working at the time, I was unable, but arranged to call in this afternoon.

It was a lengthy discussion, lasting almost twice as long as previous discussions.  We conversed on a few topics, finally coming around to the polar plunge idea.  I even offered to do it with him, as I would never suggest anything that I wouldn't be willing to do, myself.  Plus, a polar plunge sounds kind of fun and it's something that I'd love to say that I've done.  Just like being in a vehicle roll over (controlled) and driving a truck through a house.  All Bucket List items.

Somehow, the discussion came around to my telling Whitney that I had fallen through ice, once.  This admission took her by surprise.  At her behest, I described the incident at hand.  I explained how my sister's first husband had a dugout behind the gas station that he ran, just outside the city, to the east.  In the dugout, my former brother-in-law had fish, so to prevent the ice from freezing completely, which would kill the fish, he ran an air hose to the water's edge, aerating the water, thus preventing it from freezing.  However, sometimes when the temperatures dipped to the extremes that it has been over the last few days here, the air hose would freeze which required one of us gas jockey's to run out to the ice and pull the hose in to thaw.

Earlier that day, as memory recalls, it was a strange day, weather wise in Saskatoon.  I was out at my dad's house.  I remember despite it being a Sunday afternoon in January, it was also four degrees above zero.  I was outside, literally, in just a T-shirt and I felt fine.  I had to work a few hours later, out at the gas station and like usual, the weather took a nasty turn and it was about -30C by six o'clock that evening.  I can't remember who it was that I was working with, but it may have been one of the teenage girls that worked there.  That's likely why I volunteered to go check on the hose and lug it in if it were froze.

What happens next, I only remember in chunks.  I remember walking down the narrow path that had been trudged in the snow.  I remember gazing past the water's edge to see the ice hole had froze, prompting me to get on the ice to pull the hose out.  The ice was thick enough to walk on.  My ex-brother-in-law used to go ice fishing on the ice, throughout the winter months, so I never hesitated to step onto the ice.  As I was pulling the hose out, I remember hearing cracking in the ice.  It wasn't thunderous.  It never echoed off the buildings or anything, but it was loud enough to provide me with my very own Wile E. Coyote moment.  No soon than hearing the cracking noises, I looked up at the camera that wasn't there, looked through to the imaginary audience, mouthed 'Oh shit!', then disappeared from frame.

If the make believe camera were to pan down to the ice level, it would have recorded my have fallen though the ice up to my armpits, like the fellow pictured above.  I was wearing a heavy parka, ski pants, heavy boots, mitts and a toque.  I was dressed for the weather at hand, but not for taking a quick swim in the frigid water.  At first, I just sat there, dumbfounded by the predicament I happened to find myself in.  There was only two of us working and it being a functioning gas station, my cohort would likely not have an opportunity to come look for me in the near future.  Plus, as a petite teen, it's doubtful she'd have the strength to pull me out, anyway.  

So I was stuck, forced to think about how I might pull myself out of this hole, without further breaking ice.  The weight of all the garments I was wearing would surely pull me under and that would suuuck.  As I glanced about for my options, I couldn't help but reflect that it really didn't feel that bad.  I was dry, despite being submerged almost to my shoulders.  "I don't know what all those people are whining about." I thought to myself, referencing any interviews I've watched where people had fallen into icy waters.  No sooner had that thought expired, than I began feeling the water grazing my legs.  Now I was getting saturated and I had to act fast before I would weigh more than I could muscle.

I can't recall the exact strategy or method I used to clench and claw my way out, but [[SPOILER ALERT]] I survived.  I got the the beach and began walking back to the main building.  It wasn't far, but it was enough distance that made it challenging.  Because the temperature was SO low, lower with the wind chill is factored in, I'd only taken a few steps before my soaked clothing began to crystalize and freeze.  I was reminded of the scene in Terminator 2: Judgement Day, when the T-1000 is frozen with liquid nitrogen.  How it crystalized then solidified.  I was not in a position where I was in danger of freezing solid 🥶, but if I were in the middle of nowhere, who the hell knows.  In this case, the clothing froze in small sections separated by cracks.  All-in-all, it was kind of neat, but I must have had a guardian angel at my side that night, as things could've went really bad.

Of course, I gave Whitney the abridged version, cutting out some of the descriptive dialogue, but that's what happened.  I made it into the gas station, my coworker was shocked and scared, calling the boss who arrived with my sister and a bag of dry clothes.  They were all so concerned about my well-being, but I really didn't see what the big deal was all about.  I survived.

I don't think a polar plunge would be all that devastating.  It's a controlled event.  No one jumps in blindly, I wouldn't think.  Not smart people, anyway.  There's definitely some planning involved.  No big whoop.  Like I said before;  I wouldn't suggest anything that I wouldn't be willing to do myself.  I mean...  What could possibly go wrong?! 😄

No Way Jose!!

 

I'm a cat person.  In part, because I'm allergic to (most) dogs, but mostly because cats are awesome.  Watch any cat video on YouTube and try to convince me otherwise.  Cats are also fairly self reliant and don't need that constant coddling that dogs need.  I can't visit my sister's house without their Golden Retriever showering me with attention and constantly lying at my feet, starving for attention.

Another benefit to having a cat is, never having to take him for walks around the block or through the park.  He gets most of his exercise in the house, but in the warm weather, he likes to venture about in the backyard.  Daily walks around the perimeter, assuring that we are secure, I always say to him, jokingly.  When the temperatures dip down to the frigid temperatures that we've been experiencing over the last week and both, he and I, are more than happy to stay confined within the warmth of our house.  Meanwhile, I see my neighbour, bundled up into a furry ball, venturing out into the Arctic blast with dog in tow.  Neither one of them really look like they want to go for that walk and who can blame them?

The other day I was driving home when I noticed a bundled up person dragging an object behind her on the sidewalk.  As I drew nearer, I realized that the object was a small dog.  Completely bare, the short-haired dog looked catatonic.  It's tiny body, rigid, even when it was picked up and held in the person's arms.  I couldn't help but wonder just how important it actually is to take dogs for walks? 🤔  Everyone needs exercise, but can't daily walks be put on hold when the temperatures outside dip to below minus fifty with the wind chill?

I felt like there may have been a conversation between the two as they stepped outside into the frigidity of the morning.  Dog likely pulled back on the leash, exclaiming "No way, Jose, am I going out into that!!"  His momma probably tugged on the leash, coaxing the little one out the door, all the while uttering kind words to the dog in a soothing manner, "It's okay.  It's not that bad."

"Not that bad?!" I imagined the dog thinking, "You're wrapped in multiple layers to keep out the cold wind, while I'm standing here buck naked!!" 🥶

Granted, some dogs absolutely LOVE the outdoors, especially when the temperatures get so damned cold.  My sister's first dog, Tucker, was a pure breed Saint Bernard and I felt terrible for that lumbering soul in the summer months when the mercury would rise about thirty degrees Celcius.  However, when that same mercury dipped thirty degrees below zero, that dog was happier than a pig in mud.  When my mom would dog sit Tucker at her house, he loved running around her huge backyard, jumping, digging and rolling around in the deep snow.  She could pull a chair up to the back door and watch that dog have the time of his life back there.

Not Tucker, but this is what he'd look like after his play sessions in the snow.

I've seen all kinds of outfits that people get for their dogs.  I love watching these examples awkwardly walking down the sidewalk, marching like Soviet soldiers, kicking their feet high in the air in an attempt to shed their little shoes.  Then there's the little cloaks and other clever outfits crafted for their comfort. Many seem to fight it, while others almost seem to embrace it.  I recall a little Boston Terrier that belonged to a woman I used to work with.  His name was Riley and he wore a couple of different outfits, but the favourite one seemed to be a little leather bomber jacket like something you'd see a hot shot pilot wear in an old World War II film.  It was awesome.

Dress for the occasion.

The best thing about having a cat is, arguably, the worst thing about having a cat.  They shit indoors, so we can all avoid going outside in the cold, but then I have to shovel that shit out and I don't know what's in the food I feed that boy, but golly them shit's are rank.

Perhaps I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.  I've never owned a dog, myself.  I grew up with dogs, on the farm, but they were fairly self reliant.  No walks necessary as we lived on a farm and they were allowed to run freely.  Usually along side of my dad with he was working in the field.  Even when the temperatures got so unbelievably cold, those dogs stayed indoors, pausing only to go potty outside.  

I don't know where I'm going with this.  Suffice it to say; If it's too cold outside, I think we can shelve the exercise for that day or few days.  It's not like the deep freeze stays forever.  A week or two at the worst, though admittedly, it feels much longer.  Your pet, I'm sure, will appreciate it.  

That and.... Cats rule and dogs drool. 😁

Window Into My Soul

It's existed for as long as humankind has drawn breath.  Poets and playwrights have printed pages upon pages about the concept of love.  Defined, it is described a plethora of different ways, all culminating in one general theme:  It is an emotion that trumps all else, an overwhelming feeling that pushes past superficial components.  It's that feeling that hits you like a sucker punch, that convinces you that life cannot be any better without that person sharing your life.

I realized I possessed that feeling this morning.  As I gazed into their loving eyes, I realized at that precise moment, that I was exactly where I needed to be and that I don't desire to be anywhere else.  I wanna scoop this person up and smother them with hugs and kisses.  I wanna shout from the highest rooftops.  Climb the highest mountain peak.  Hire a pilot to tow a banner declaring what is causing my heart to burst at it's seams.  I want to grab a ghetto blaster, like John Cusack in Say Anything, filling the air with "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel, a song also composed for a true love. 😍  I want to jump on a sofa, like a crazed Tom Cruise on the Oprah show, screaming with excitement.

I cannot fathom a single moment without this lovely personality in my life and have found myself soaring into complete despair and depression when I think of my life before they graced me with their existence.  This morning, as I was serving them their breakfast, it hit me.  I grabbed a hold of them and squeezed.  I was overwhelmed with emotion and failing to stand on a soap box in the middle of the town square, I will use this venue to declare my overwhelming true love for....  My cat, Monkey.  He is truly the greatest entity to enter my life.  I love that kid with every fibre of my being.

I love you, Monkey.
You're simply the best!

💘

 

4 Fox Sake

 

I noticed today that I've been saying "For F*ck Sake" a lot.  A Lot.  A LOT!!!  And, honestly, it's annoying the shit outta me. 😒 I don't know when I started saying it, nor how long it's taken for me to realize that I am saying it. 🤨  I do know that it's not something that I've said my entire life, because I do know that I haven't.

If memory serves me...  I believe it was a permanent resident of my dad's vocabulary. 🤔  A truly poetic swearologist, my dad was.  He could lace together a plethora of curse words that sounded as lovely as a Shakespearean sonnet.  I've never heard another person do it like my father could.  If I had to, I'd say Ricky from Trailer Park Boys, is about as close as comes.

Oddly, I've been thinking about my dad a lot, lately.  I've been watching some show on TV about celebrities confronting ghosts that haunted them once upon a time, doing so through psychic Kim Russo.  They, Russo and whatever celebrity is featured that episode, exchange some casual banter, usually involving loved ones who've passed away previous to filming the episode.  I don't know if it's real or not, but the information she reveals is usually bang on accurate.  Real or not, it gets a guy thinking.  If I were in that situation, with someone who has psychic abilities, who would come back to message me or more accurately, who would I not want to hear from?

Of course, I'd welcome anything offered my way.  I'm kind of a mark for that shit, but if it is real and accurate, do I really want to hear how disappointed my dad is in me and the shitty life I've lead?  I live with that regret every day.  I don't need a reminder from beyond the grave. FML.

Could it be?  In thinking about the what ifs and the what was's, I was reminded of all the times I'd disappointed him when he was alive? 🤔 All those times I'd f*ck up and he'd give me that look.  You know that look!  Every son who's f*cked up has seen that look. 😠 My dad would yell, "FOR FUCK SAKE!!!" Followed by a compilation of expletives linked together like the limerick of a deranged psychopath.  It was scary as f*ck when it was happening, sure.  I'll grant ya that, but f*ck me, thinking back, man. When I hear a parent in the next aisle at the grocery store go postal on their annoying kids, I smile and think about my dad. 😊💬

Holy shit. 😲 When I set out to type this blog out, I was just looking for a way to delete the phrase "for f*ck sake" from my vernacular.  Instead I had a psychological breakthrough.  Holy f*ck!! 😄

Ricky (Robb Wells)
Trailer Park Boys

Excellent Swearologist

KRYPTONITE

Aside from being a precious gem from another world that could literally kill the Man of Steel, Superman, aka Kal El, aka Clark Kent, Kryptonite is also the name of a Top Number One Hit from the band 3 Doors Down, circa 2000.

I wasn't a fan of the song, at first, if I gotta be honest.  When it'd come on the radio I'd clench my teeth and work my way through it or change the channel.  It wasn't until one weekend when I attended a bachelor party.  My memory is a little foggy on the evening.  (I wasn't drinking, but my memory is SO terrible these last few years and it's only getting worse - ha ha.)

I believe we had a nice supper, somewhere.  May have attended a bar at some point.  I really don't remember.  Can't even recall whose bachelor party it was, to be honest.  However, what I DO recollect is our attending the local strip club.  I can't for the life of me, remember the name of the place, but it's long gone and it doesn't matter for the sake of the story.

As I stated, I was not drinking, so when the bunch of guys left to table to go do shots or something, I was left alone at the table.  Situated next to the dance floor/stage where the nice girls were strutting their stuff, I looked like some pervy guy seated alone.  So when the song "KRYPTONITE" came blasting over the airwaves and an attractive strawberry blonde dancer came over to the table next to me, I politely turned my chair and looked away.  

Now if I'm being completely honest, I didn't turn all the way.  I turned just enough.  My peripheral vision is most excellent, still to this day.  Now, that combined with a few casual glances, now and again, was enough for me to appreciate her performance.  The young woman was putting her heart and soul into this dance.  To quote Donna Summer, "She Works Hard For The Money".  She was earning that tip from the next table. 

When the song concluded, I was thankful, as I never cared much for the song up to that point.  The dancer strode across the stage to her bag, withdrew a poster and walked sexily back to the table next to me where she'd just been dancing, fully nude, for the table of young men.

One, let's be honest, boy, opened his wallet and began fingering through many bills.  I glanced at her eager reaction, hoping for a sizeable donation, but that looked quickly disappeared from her face, replaced with disdain.  She was visibly upset, for the young fella pulled out a measly ten dollar bill then asked if she had change.

My jaw literally dropped.  I could not believe that these three people sat and watched this lovely woman flash them all her pretty pink parts and they wanted change for a f*cking ten.  She told them off, turned to me and rewarded me with the poster.  I never gave her any money and she didn't want any from me.

Since that evening, circa 2000 or so, whenever that song comes on the radio, I'm reminded of how stupid, ignorant, and arrogant some people are.  Okay. Okay.  If I'm being honest, when the song comes on, I just remember that asshole asking the stripper for change and her getting angry.  And I actually like the song, too.

....Always tip your waitress and your stripper.... 😄

In Over My Head

 

For as long as I can remember, one of my biggest fears is drowning.  An understandable fear, which I'm sure is shared by most, if not all, but not something that is observed on a daily basis.  No one sets out to drown...  Well.  Maybe some, but that's a different set of circumstances and thought processes.  What initially sparked this fear, for me, was watching a movie many many (many) years ago, that cemented this fear for me.

The movie was "White Squall" from 1996, which is a story based on the true events which occurred in 1960 to a group of prep schoolers who set out to sea aboard an old-fashioned sailing vessel.  The trip is to teach the young men fortitude and discipline, but what they actually receive is a crash course in survival after the ship they're on, capsizes from being hit by a white squall, which occurred just three weeks short of their final destination.  Starring an all-star cast, including Jeff Bridges, Ryan Phillippe, Jeremy Sisto, Scott Wolf, among many others.  One scene that clinched this unbridled fear was when the ship is sinking and there's a shot of some classmates locked behind a door.  After many failed attempts, survivors are forced to abandon their classmates.  The fear on their eyes was relentless, striking a fear in me that has lasted all these years, later.  Just the idea of not dying immediately, but to watch the water levels slowly rise to the point where all oxygen is lost and you're forced to take that final breath and suck in all that water.  It's purely horrifying.

]That's not what this blog is about and I apologize for leading you astray.  It was a decent movie, if I remember correctly, so if you have an opportunity to give it a looksy, take a chance with it, it's only two hours, after all.]

Driving home, tonight, I saw a young fellow walking along the road that runs parallel to the river.  The weather being as frigid and cold as it is, the decision to walk that route, especially when the next set of houses isn't for, at least, a quarter mile or so.  My imagination, as it often does, began to race at all the infinite possibilities of what may be going on.  Perhaps he's unfamiliar with the city and doesn't know that walking along this route is futile.  Or maybe, and my mind went to a dark place, he's not feeling very well, mentally, and he was hoping to gain access to the river to... You know.  End his misery. 

It was at that moment that my brain abandoned the young fellow and immediately began analyzing my own fears concerning drowning.  The thoughts raced through my head like ponies at the Kentucky Derby.  I vocalized, out loud, how it horrified me.  Then I paused...

What if I was tossed into a lake of gravy?  I love gravy and as much as it would suck to drown, would it be so bad if it was in gravy?  Then I abandoned that idea.  A lake of gravy?  Really?  "What's wrong with me?" I thought to myself. 🤨  A vat of gravy would make so much more sense.  That's when my thoughts and concerns for the young man had completely vanished.  Now my thoughts went straight to trying to figure out just how large a vat actually is.  While I've used the word 'vat' many times as a safety word in Words With Friends, I barely know anything beyond that and what they're used for.

According to Google, and I'm paraphrasing this to simplify an otherwise complicated response to a relatively easy query, but that's Google for ya.  a vat is generally around 26 U.S. gallons.  How that relates to actual size in inches or feet, I don't know.  I Googled pictures and it ranged from a large cooking pot to something you'd store beer in.

 

I'm mostly curious about the size of a vat, because I believe, if it was beef gravy, like illustrated above, that I might be capable of drinking myself to safety, al la Bob McKenzie from the movie "Strange Brew" (1983).  The container on the left would be challenging but if I hunkered down and dedicated myself, like Adam Moran of Beard Meats Food fame.  (If you don't already, look him up on YouTube.  His videos are as fun and enjoyable as they are challenging to watch - sometimes.😄)

Of course this is all ridiculous.  It's in my nature.  It's how I entertain myself.  I hope this entertained you, as well.  No use in being serious all the time.  What's the use in that?  No fun.

 
Strange Brew / Bob McKenzie (left) Adam Moran "Beard Meats Food" (right)

Dainty Digits

My job affords me many many hours alone.  In the beginning, I was left with only my thoughts to entertain me while I drove riders around the city, but soon, I got myself a speaker to alleviate the boredom and borderline insanity.  Soon I found myself enthralled with the radio personalities of our fair city and maybe a year after that I began to overstep my reservations about calling in to the radio stations.  Making phone calls has always been a huge phobia for me.  Nothing overwhelming that would cause me to cower in the corner of a room, muttering gibberish to myself.  It's just that, in the past I've had experiences where people call me from questionable places.  Subject for another time, perhaps.

In my repeated calls in to the radio station, something I do semi-regular, is because they always have a subject that I can weigh in on and today was no different.  However, I was too busy to make a call, so instead I decided to simply write my thoughts and memories down.

Sully, one of the afternoon radio personalities, was confronted by his co-host, Whitney, about his shiny fingernails.  "They're reflecting the sun and blinding me." I believe she said, or something to that effect.  Sully, often the brunt of many jokes because of his naivete to life in Saskatchewan.  Sully is from Vancouver and as much as one would believe that there isn't much of a difference in lifestyles in each province, Sully proves otherwise.  So when Whitney addressed Sully's fingernail situation, Sully never backtracked.  He leapt forward with a logical response.

Sully's daughter wanted her daddy to take her for a mani-pedi and had him get his nails done, too.  I apologize for not having all the facts as to what lead up to his taking his daughter for the spa date, but suffice it to say, 'That's a good dad.'.  I texted in to the show to say as much, adding a memory that had returned to me as a result of his touching story.

When I was a kid and my sister was even younger than that, I recall my dad laying lazily on the sofa, watching television.  He had come home from work, exhausted, which is why he'd fall in and out of sleep.  My sister had asked if she could file and trim his nails and being the loving father that he was, he obliged.

The tender touch my sister's little hands and fingers had on my father's aching feet must have been to trick he needed to send him soaring into dreamland.  She gave my dad the full treatment.  Lotion and everything.

The next day my dad came home with a story to tell.  My dad worked as a heavy duty mechanic with the Potash Mine of Saskatchewan.  After a hard sweaty and hot shift working underground, he and his co-workers were hitting the showers when his buddies all noticed his toe nails.  All ten were a vibrant pink colour.  He quickly explained to the lot of them that his daughter, my sister, had been playing and must have painted his toes when he was asleep.

That was half true, she did, in fact, paint his nails, but he knew that she was mucking about down there while he was asleep.  He wasn't angry, although my sister, if memory serves, was a little uncertain when my dad was retelling the story.   He wasn't.  In fact, he got a good laugh out of it, adding that he'd thought she was just doing the clipping and filing.  Never in a million years, did he ever suspect that she'd doll his tootsies up like one of her Barbie's.