My Buddy Josh and the Black Bear Rescue

 

Yes, I know one of the firefighters in this video about the rescued black bear in Oxnard. So that means. . . I’m like – one degree from bears. . . but seriously – firefighters rescuing bears – gotta love it. Smokey the Bear thanks you, Josh!

 

Daily Travels and Things I Saw

Seriously, I know our world isn’t quite this sad. Although both scenes depicted images that could be interpreted as distasteful, sacrilegious and possibly disrespectful, I leave it to you to decide.

Me? I thought totally hilarious on both counts. Gotta love the creativity of the human race.

 

Totally dig this ride. You can’t see the detail – and although the windows are scary black, as in – can’t-see-inside-so-there-might-actually-BE-a-body-in-there black, I’m pretty sure this is a non-servicing Hearse. The center of the hub caps sport some pretty sweet skulls that I am sure would sparkle in the sun had it not been hidden behind the clouds. I hope I get to see this Hearse when the owner has finished his vision. I would call Pimp My Ride for this bad boy – oh yes I would.

Now seriously – how can you NOT laugh at this? On the side of  an overpass in Smiths Falls. Hey, we know who will prevail in the end, but it’s nice to know someone is pulling for the pigeons.

You ARE a Redneck If (No Kidding' and This Really Happened):

Okay - so the other day I'm dropping a friend off at home after her shift at her job.

She lives in a tidy little neighbourhood of row houses that face an elementary school across a semi-busy  but slow-travellin' road.

It's all part of the charm of Lanark County.

My pal points out that her neighbours are barbecuing again. I glance over and notice the smoke. They are settin' up picnic camp in their driveway, and the 'cue smoke is comin' up on noxious.

I don't think much of it as we say goodbye and I pull out of her driveway. As I pass by the neighbour's house again, I notice a small brunette totin' a chainsaw.

And she's headed for what's left of a bed frame from a child's room.

Her behaviour doesn't have to be construed as odd, I suppose. We women are emotional creatures. There's all sorts of reasons she could be chainsaw-ing the living hell out of a children's bed. Anger, revenge, desperation for new furniture. . . one could only wonder.

But her needs were even more basic than unbalanced chemistry. . . the missus was going to town on what was left of the bed with that chainsaw a roarin' for a baser need, a primitive need, if you will.

The bed was made in to manageable pieces of kindling to follow the rest of its mates, already on the 'cue, heatin' up the grill for some meat, boy howdy.

Yup. If you start cuttin' up your children's furniture to provide fuel for your barbecue . . . YOU. ARE. A. REDNECK.

The Parade that Nobody Knew About

If a parade goes down the middle of the street and there's nobody there to watch it, are the clowns still scary?

Saturday I needed to do an errand that involved popping downtown to Bridge Street in our sleepy little downtown area.

I usually take the highway to High Street, and cruise through my favourite neighbourhood in town. This one houses the oldest mansions, the three-fireplace-houses-with-upstairs-screened-in-porches. I have a fantasy that one day I will be able to see (or live) inside one house in particular. Until I do, I will just drive by and daydream.

Anyway, Bridge street was closed off at High Street. There were volunteers that let no passers through, that looked determined and a little too enthusiastic to have a reason to turn on vehicles that didn’t want to heed the big blue barriers that blocked the road. There was no traffic either way, so I decided to park at the barrier and walk downtown, it being such a nice day and all.

I stopped at the barrier and looked left, looked right. I saw no reason for barriers. There were no crowds, nothing. I asked a volunteer, "What's up?"

She looked at me as if I should know already, and said in a tone that chastised me just a bit for not knowing "It's the Shriner's Parade."

I looked left again. Oh, there were some police officers on bikes, and a fire truck, and if I listened carefully, I could hear the parade band tuning up.

I looked right again. But where were all the people? Had I stepped into some weird anti-parade dimension?

I walked on, struck again that I could only see about 30 people sitting up and down the street, most of them local vendors coming out to see what's going on, or people like me, who just happened to stumble on a ghost-town parade.

It was eerie, embarrassing for the Shriners, shameful for our town and frighteningly hilarious to me.

My one errand on Bridge Street netted me a 'closed' sign, so I turned back, and finally saw the parade approaching.

The Shriners in their various forms - on too-tiny-motorcycles, too-tiny-ground-planes, sitting and waving in fancy cars and honking weird sounding horns. There were many of them, some younger than one might expect, and all of them wearing their nifty hats.

They smiled and waved for the few people that watched them go by to the accompaniment of the community band, who actually sounded pretty good.

I laughed at the absurdity of it, and believe the Shriners mistook that for enthusiasm. I received wave after wave from the merry men, which made me laugh harder.

When the clowns came toward me my fun ended.

Clowns are evil and must be stopped. I was afraid for my very soul and couldn't get back to the car fast enough.

The feeling that I had somehow been robbed of something hit me.

I had been gone less than ten minutes and the parade was over.

As I made it to my car (only checking over my shoulder once to make sure evil clowns weren't stalking me) I heard a mother say into her cell phone in a dismayed tone "It's over. The parade is already over."

And it’s just a shame that nobody saw it.

Growing Old Gracefully, or NOT!

 

I Guess I Won’t Age Gracefully. . .

When I was a teenager, I used to see all the crazy ads for the newest miracle product to make someone look younger. It boggled my. I decided then that I didn’t care about face creams and eye potions and anti-aging defence. But I was a teenager. Even though I thought I knew everything, I really didn’t.

Last week, I was in a local drug store picking up a few items. When I was finished, I went to the register. And this register is where I received the shock of my life.

The blue-eyed cashier asked me for my rewards card. Then she asked something I wasn’t prepared to hear for at least another eight years:

“If you are 50 years old you qualify for our extra discount today. I have to ask everybody. Are you 50?”

Speechless is not a state easily achieved by me. And yet there I was. Speechless.

In ten silent seconds, the following went through my mind: “Did she just say 50? Didn’t someone guess I was 35 last week? Is my mascara running? Did I sleep well last night? Did my face suddenly grow a riverbed of wrinkles I wasn’t aware of? How old is that cashier, anyway? It’s not like she’s 20!”

And that’s when I knew. I was not going to grow old gracefully. I looked at the cashier again, turned to the customer in line behind me and laid my head on her shoulder for comfort and solace.

Luckily for me, the next customer happened to be my good friend Mitzy Dunkirk, on a lunch break from the hardware store. When my head hit her shoulder, I could feel the laughter she was trying to hold back.

The cashier looked a little afraid at this point, even though I was just playing with her. Bad Joyce. I looked up at her as I paid for my purchase and said “No, I’m NOT 50, and won’t be for another eight years, thankyouverymuch.”

Here is where Mitzy couldn’t hold in her laughter anymore.

“I’m sorry, I just – I just am supposed to ask everyone.” She hurriedly finished my purchase. I assured her I wasn’t really offended (though my vanity was sorely so), and I understood she was just doing her job.

Mitzy placed her purchases on the counter. I moved aside to allow room. I looked at the cashier. “So, you have to ask everybody, right?”

“Yes, I have to ask every customer.”

I looked at Mitzy, who looked at me, comprehension dawning on her 36-year-old features, and turned her heated gaze to the cashier. “Don’t you dare ask me.”

“It’s her job, Mitzy. She has to ask you.” I turn to the cashier. “ASK her.”

“Don’t ask me that question – don’t you dare ask me.”

The cashier didn’t know what to do, but my fierce stare had her asking my not-even-forty-yet friend “If you are 50 years old you qualify for our extra discount today. Are you 50?”

“I can’t believe she just asked me that.” Mitzy tossed a forlorn look my way and I did a little jump of glee.

I’d like to think the cashier was having fun too, but reality dictates that she probably couldn’t wait to get rid of us. Serves her right, asking us if we’re 50.