Here We Go!

 08 September 2024

1126

R. Linda:

Last week began the thankfully short season of presidential campaigning. Yes, indeed. First up, Kamala Harris sans Tim Walz. There is something thrilling about watching Air Force 2 land, and down the ramp comes the VP herself. All smiles, she greets her greeters, waves to the press and bystanders and into a black car she gets, and it's off to a rally in Concord. She isn't alone; not only is there the Secret Service and local authorities but there is also the press corp hot on her heels. Never let it be said we aren't only loud, we are fast!

Deplaning

Arriving at the venue, one abandons one's vehicle if you are the press, anywhere you find a space. Then, it is run to the stands to elbow your way to the front of them so you and your trusty phone, camera, recorder, whatever the hell you have will put you at the best vantage place to snap photos and shout questions. That is until you get to the first gate and security stops you. Yes, indeed, credentials must be shown. One is gone over for metal of any kind and asked all sorts of stupid questions before one can get through, and that is only after one is checked to see if one is on THE LIST. 

The crowd

Then, the elbowing starts, the shoving your fellow correspondent to get the best place, and Bob's your uncle, you are ready. More aptly, I am prepared to do me Clark Kent job. Of course, once I have secured me vantage point, I be jostled by more press as they arrive, and the pushing and shoving gets a tad more intense. Short of name-calling, we finally settled down to WAIT. When she comes out, she looks all excited to see the crowd. Us? Maybe not so much because we start shouting at her as soon as she appears, and for the most part, she ignores our questions and waves and smiles at us like, "Maybe later." If I were her, I'd feel the same way. We, as a group, can be pains in the arse. 

And she appears! The crowd went wild.

On her way to the stage

She gave a speech centred around small businesses in New Hampshire. This concerns the voters since this is a tourist state with small businesses everywhere. The speech was well received. Everyone seemed to enjoy her presence as much as what she said had meaning to them, and they were receptive to what she proposed to do to help business in New Hampshire. 

The crowd was energised by her and excited. Harris talks about joy, and I'd say the crowd was enthused but not as energised as Bernie made them. I somehow was shoved back a row. I was in a second kind of row when I found meself in a third row! My associates were meaty types, so I didn't push back; being tall, I was just fine. 

After her speech, she stopped and talked with us

I wish all rallies could be that exciting and tame, with a candidate who genuinely seemed pleased to be here. But the good news is, we are not far from the elections, so hopefully, peace and quiet will return to our small state, at least until the next elections. We get the winter off to enjoy the snow! Yes, next up, SNOW, cursing, broken shovels, car ploughs, being snowed in, electricity down for months, and snowball fights. Yea! Can hardly wait, NOT!

Gabe

Copyright © 2024 All rights reserved

It's That Time Again

 07, September 2024

1125

R. Linda:

Everything in bucolic New Hampshire has been as it should be before Leaf Peeper Season. The place is lush with verdure, and the trees have a hint of colour. The natives are enjoying the peace of summer's end, but hark! The rattle of political signs has begun to be heard as these posters on wire prongs are pushed into the ground overnight, and the natives awaken to the blight of the highway, political signs! Why can't we enjoy summer's end? Why must we be subject to the red, white, blue and sometimes green signs that seemingly pop up overnight on our road corners like weeds? I ask ya! I know, you'll tell me it's New Hampshire's insistence to be the First in the Nation bullshit and all that, and we have brought this upon ourselves, well maybe. I'll give you that digging in heels to be first brings with it these ugly consequences. 

We even have cartoon characters running; see here:

And it's GREEN! Okay, it's spelt differently, but you get the drift

I have complained about this every year, and the signage grows worse every year. There is always more of it, and the worst of it is the sign carriers. Yes, R. Linda, the people who risk life and limb to stand on New Hampshire speedways, I mean highways, where pickup trucks speed by at 100 mph and they somehow don't get run over.

I overheard a conversation by one such sign carrier that she was standing on the lip of a concrete curb where a lot of vehicles make u-turns. She was tempted to put her toe in the road to see what it felt like to be run over. I was like, WHAT? I find out she's not from here; she's from Massachusetts, and THAT, my dear R. Linda, says a lot. All I could think of was the tedious hours of standing in the hot sun or drenching rain and being mindless.

However, there is one cowboy in our town who has taken this a step further. Yes, this guy decided if we would pollute our lovely scenery with signs, he'd put one in, too. I thought it was genius. Look here:

Yee-ah, one guy with a sense of humour that I can appreciate

Here, take a closer look:

Yup, home-grown non-pol

If you can't beat them, join them! 

Gabe

Copyright © 2024 All rights reserved

UK News vs. Important News

 24 August 2024

1124

R. Linda:

After listening to the Dragon read today's headlines, me correcting her, and the wife getting furious that the headlines were what they were (no substance, just a lot of fluff), I thought about it and was inspired to share my frustration with you because I know how much you like shared angst. 

In the past few years, news reporting has lost its unbiased nature and become rather snarky. But nothing beats the UK press, which tends to focus on celebrities instead of what is happening worldwide. Perhaps that is better than worrying if WW3 is around the corner. I, for one, want to know if it is. I don't care if Ed Westwick is married. I don't know the dude and certainly was not invited to the wedding. I opened one online UK news source and got the headline story on the Princess of Wales attending church. She's a better "Catholic" than I am; forgive the slur, but then a few hours later, the same story was reworked. For your perusal, here it is:

"Kate Middleton, 42, (in case you forgot her age) appeared in high spirits as she was pictured arriving for Sunday service with her husband William.

"Also snapped making their way to the Scottish church were King and Queen Camilla, the Duke and Duchess of Edinburg -- along with their son, and Tim Lawrence. 

"The Princess sported (Yes, sports fans, she sported, not wore, but sported) the same hat she donned last year for a Sunday church service (Oh, the nerve of her to wear that hat twice!)      when she donned a beige tartan Marlborough trench coat from Holland Cooper with a dark brown wool felt fedora with feathers." (I am racking my brains out trying to remember the ensemble, but the good news is that she matched the browns wonderfully, I am sure. However, later, they revamped this paragraph to inform us she was wearing that ensemble today, so which was it? An old reworm outfit or something new?). 

Do we care what she wore a while back? Can we remember all that? Most curiously, is it that important we do? But wait, there is more:

"The stylish hat, from Hicks & Brown, retailed for  £99 and comes in a variety of other colours such as camel, dusky pink and maroon."

I'm so glad the hat is still stylish after a year, but what if it was not? Why must we know where she bought these items and how much they cost? This sounded to me more like a commercial for Hicks & Brown when we actually have the colours the hat comes in a list! Are we all likely to run out and buy one? I think not. Unless we all look as good as Princess Kate in a feathered brown fedora, why bother? And indeed, yours truly would look quite ridiculous in these things.

But this paragraph was rearranged later to read:

"The hat is a favourite of the mother-of-three, who previously wore it almost a year ago to the day  -- at Crathie Kirk with her family."

So, why the correction? So, she wore it a year ago to the same place. What is the secret message in her appearance in the same outfit?  But wait, you males in the audience, here is something for you and me!

"William drove the car, smiling as he chatted with his wife and opting for a navy blue suit for the occasion. 

I'm so glad William can drive a car and chat at the same time. Gees! But the fact that Kate was wearing brown and he was wearing blue, well,. . . that clashes, doesn't it? According to my wife's mother, you never pair the two together unless you are wearing a bright blue suit with bright brown leathers. Let THAT sink in, why don't you?

"Meanwhile, Charles, 75, and Camilla, 76, made a colourful appearance in Scottish tartan ensembles."

I am so glad to be reminded of the monarchs' ages. I might have forgotten they are older than me; it is nice to be reminded, and I am sure they both appreciate that.

"The Queen opted for a bright green blazer, adorned with red collar detailing and buttons, teamed with a matching hat."

So, we have blue, brown, and now green—the sky, the earth, and . . . Christmas! I was reassured to read that buttons were adorning the blazer, but the red detailing gave me pause; it seems a bit Christmasy, does it not?

"Her husband made a dapper style statement in a kilt, worn with a muted grey jacket."

Ah, now we are talking. He was styling too! Who knew? I be sure the Scots appreciated that. The "muted grey" of the jacket made him blend in perfectly with all those bright colours. No one would really notice him over the others. 

"Edward and his wife Sophie both appeared to go for chic beige ensembles, perfect for the end of the summer weather."

I can't help snickering up me sleeve at this. Taking a nod at Megan Markle with the beige blending, are we? I wouldn't worry about taking notice away from the grey-clad king for apparent reasons. But "chic"? I dunno about that. How "chic" can one be in beige?

Then, the article went on to talk about Kate's recovery, etc. It was a fluff article, but it was the headline article and that's what has me. Meanwhile, in the world, Hezbollah and Israel are bombing the hell out of each other, and the situation there is more dire than usual. Do we care that Oasis is set for a £50 million payday amid Noel's £20 million divorce? When thousands are without power as Hurricane Hone continues to pound Hawaii? Do we really need to know what the celebs are doing as the world goes to ruin?

Gabe

Copyright © 2024. All rights reserved

Why is the cat climbing the walls?

28 July 2024

1123

R. Linda:

What do you do with a wired cat? I mean, a cat that drinks espresso coffee? I noticed strange behaviour yesterday on the cat's part and didn't overthink it because the strangeness was gone by the afternoon. However, it happened again this morning, and I couldn't help but notice. Mam's cat, barely out of kittenhood, is a personality in the house. He jumps at the dog, cat-dances around all arched-backed, then dashes at the dog's legs and runs off. The dog is sweet-tempered and would not dream of hurting the cat. I don't know how he contains that sweet temper because if it were me, I'd be snapping and chasing that cat all over the house. But I digress, and that is not the problem.

When I had Mr. Kits, he had a thing for catnip. That boy would indulge in the stuff anytime and any place. If we didn't give him his fix, he'd get it off the shelf and work on it until he had it dumped all over the floor. He'd be zonked for days (see Zoned, Zonked, Out Of It, OR Mr. Kits Has A Hell Of A Night! 14 April 2012). 

This guy, Mr. Indy Jones, whips up on the dog and the people in the house. He uses his tail to whip you with it until you look down and see him looking up at you, waiting for cat treats. Yes, he's a cat-treat junkie. Forget the catnip; he likes it, but those Temptation chicken-flavoured cat treats are the cat's meow, excuse the pun. Well named, yes, he is. He also thinks he is a dog. He stands on his hind legs to beg for treats, wags his tail when he sees you and rolls on his back so you'll rub his belly. Do you need me to go on? He's a character he is. If you rub a cat's belly, you will have tooth and claw stuck in your hand, but not Mr. Jones! He rolls around like a dog, and it is all for treats!

But besides that usual behaviour, he started rubbing up against the walls, making little mewing noises to get you to notice him, and if you lean down to pet him, he rolls around on the floor like, "Look at cutey pie me! Now give me a treat!" And if that does nothing, he whips you with his tail, and as soon as you lean down, he's off and running around the room, up the furniture, over the table, and down the other side and back again. Made me dizzy just watching him.

I had just taken the last coffee and was in the kitchen where the treats live. I offered a treat, and he smelled it, turned up his nose and looked at me like, "Nope, that's not what I want." Then he zoomed off like he remembered he should be someplace else. I couldn't figure out what he wanted, and in a few moments, he was back. He started cuffing my shins. When that didn't work, he got his tail to whip me in the shins and ankles. When that didn't work, he attacked my ankles with teeth and claws. Not hard, but enough to get my attention, which he already had. I left him for my office and closed the door. He sat outside the glass door, staring at me as I sipped my coffee until he finally gave up and went away. That left me thinking he was deranged, and we were just finding this out.

Just an hour ago, I decided to speak to Mam about this. I went into the kitchen, and she was chatting with Tonya, who was brewing them both macchiatos (yes, Mam got a Nespresso machine, and now you know who I take after). I asked for one too because I am a coffee hound, as you know. Anyway, the cat was under Tonya's feet meowing (I thought for treats), and Ton was having a time sidestepping so as not to step on Mr. Indy. 

She made one coffee and was making another when Mam had taken hers and put it on the hassock in the TV room to cool off a little. Look at this freshly made beauty.

Mam's Macchiato

As we were all at the kitchen counter awaiting the rest of the macchiatos, I noticed that the cat noise had dropped off, and the cat was gone. It took a little bit to make two more macchiatos, but it was well worth it. Tonya and I adjourned to the TV room to find this with its head in the glass.

It WAS a full cup

 "Ye noe I haf been wonderin' why I seem to haf a cup the size of an espresso. I could swear I had a full cuppa when I poot it doon, an' when I coom back fer it to be cooled, I haf jus' a lil bit."

"Now you know," I said. And Mr. Jones? He just looked at us like he wanted us to leave so he could finish Mam's macchiato.

Doesn't he look insulted? Or, more like he's saying WHAT?

We know why he gets so energised now. He likes the frothy milk, and I guess he likes the coffee mixed in with it, too! So now we froth extra milk for him. I know he shouldn't have it, so it be a treat on occasion. I hope he can live with that because Mam wants her full cuppa.

Gabe

Copyright © 2024 All rights reserved

Ducks, Ducks, and more Ducks!

13 July 2024

1122

R. Linda:

We took a holiday in Chatham, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod. As a wonderful time was had by all of us, we did get some shopping in. Of course, we did. Tonya and Mam never go anywhere they don't go souvenir shopping, or is the correct term hunting? 

The shops are all quaint and artsy, but one in particular caught my eye and would have yours as well. It's a shop filled with . . . are you ready? RUBBER DUCKS!

I saw the sign as we were walking towards it.

Sign outside

What could this be? I looked in the window, and sure enough, DUCKS!

Will you look at this!

The window ducks drew us in. There were rows and rows upon rows of rubber ducks! From the front of the store to the back. Every conceivable kind of rubber ducky you could imagine. Look here:

Look at this! Have you ever seen so many besides your own collection?

The kiddos went wild! They wanted one of each, and I tell you, we had a time talking them down to three each. 

The eldest bought Chewy, Duck Vader and a pirate duck not pictured.

The middle child bought Gory Horror Ducks; yes, he did, 3 of them.

The wee one bought Rock N' Roll ducks and one Deliveryman duck - don't ask.

And not to be outdone, Mam bought herself one of these Spidey ducks.

She's a big kid she is, never will grow up, much like yourself.

I went home duckless and moneyless for that excursion into the bizarre. But the kiddos had fun. Every time they saw another duck, they'd laugh and get excited, pointing at this one and at that one. It turned out for them, at least, to be the highlight of their holiday. Forget the lovely beach, the dinners out with all that fabulous seafood, the miniature golf and pickleball; it was the duck store that was the highlight of their trip to the Cape. 

If you were with us, you'd still be inside that store. Heck, you'd probably buy the entire shop!

Gabe

Copyright © 2024 All rights reserved

I Literally Jumped Out Of Me 4th of July Chair

05 July 2024

1121

R. Linda:

I was alone in the living room, the telly on and Ken Burn's Civil War playing. I watched for a bit, but the food made me sleepy, so I switched it off to get some kip. I nestled (yes, nestled) in the big comfy armchair, quietly letting a lovely 4th of July dinner digest, eyes heavy with wanting to doze. It was only the dog and me; everyone else went upstairs to play Fortnite. As I started to drift into sleep, an explosion of canon fire suddenly set me right out of my chair to a standing position, blinking in the dim light of the room, looking to duck for cover. The dog's claws scrapped on the wood floor as he zoomed out of the room and up the stairs to safety. I glanced at the dark telly to ensure I hadn't shut it off, and it was the programme.

I turned around to the window behind the chair and jumped. I saw sparks and flashing lights and heard metal fragments hitting the tree leaves as they whizzed to the ground. In my digestive daze, my first impression was that the generator blew up. It was then that I realised it was fireworks. The idiots next door had an arsenal and picked me dozy time to set them off. 

Yup, view from the window behind the chair. I thought all hell had broken loose

Why not just come over and set them off under me chair for a better reaction?

To be sure my generator hadn't blown up, I ran out and saw it wasn't, but the people next door were setting off a massive amount of fireworks. They usually do this every year, but I could hear no party sounds this year and assumed there would be no free fireworks show. But alas, I was wrong. Usually, they post a notice that they are about to set off explosives, and if you have farm animals, beware, it will be a chaotic, noisy, loud night in the barn. 

I could hear the pellets hitting the leaves on the trees and thought the explosives were closer to my property than usual. Well, it all died down; it did. Thinking it was over, I went inside to settle down once again, and it was a good ten minutes before I started to nod off when it happened again. I tell ya!

Not once but a continuous booming out my window

Yup, it nearly blew me out of the chair. I gave up all hope of sleepy land and went upstairs to find the dog cowered under the bed, but the cat, now that creature, knows no fear. It was sitting in the window with a backdrop of bursting fireworks, looking for all intents and purposes like it was a regular occurrence. It washed its paws like no big deal and stole a look at me to see if I was taking this no fear in. I was. I tried to coax the dog from underneath the bed, but he wasn't having it and didn't seem to care if he looked like a coward to the cat. I decided once the war outside was over, I'd go to bed. Only as soon as the fireworks concluded, the guns came out. Yes, they have AK47s or whatever those things are called. I could hear them firing rat-a-tat-tat in a continuous stream, and once THAT stopped, they whooped and yelled and did it again. WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? 

I'll tell ya who they are; they are the Southerners from across the border in Massachusetts; that's who they are! They are a wild and crazy bunch of homesteaders with funny accents. If you think mine is nuts, you should hear them. They spout things like "Mah wife is wicked smaaht," and "Ask ya muthah, and pass the chowdah," "Give me moah fah puttn' up wit ya." and crazy talk like that. Some years ago, the Democrats in Massachusetts noticed the Republican population in New Hampshire was rather significant, so they decided to move up to balance out the scales. Lucky me has them next door.

I've had dreams all night of being in the line of fire somewhere in Virginia. I was in the blue uniform of the Federal Government being fired on by a line of grey-clad whooping rebels from old Virginia or maybe the invasive Army of Neighbours from Massachusetts! The pellets from the shells whizzing like pounding rain around yours truly. The woods lit up like canon fire was aimed at me sorry self. It was strange I'd find meself dressed as an American Civil War soldier when I had no real knowledge of U.S. history. But all night long, I was trying to find my way through thick, soggy woods to the Appomattox River, and General Sheridan was after me with his sword unsheathed, telling me to get back in line. Right-ho General! And then I woke up just as his black horse came rearing at me, his sword raised, his black eyes ablaze, the explosions mirrored in those eyes, his sword pressing into my chest when suddenly I was back in the here and now. All was quiet on the home front.

My heart was pounding it was. All was silence around me. I think it was a combination of what I ate, the fireworks scaring the bejesus out of me and the dog, and seeing a smidgen of Ken Burns Civil War on PBS. But then I saw why my chest seemed heavy, the fearless cat was curled up in a ball on top of me, its eyes glowing with mirth as it raised its head and stared at me as if to say, "Get over yourself, I've got ya, ya big baby."

Gabe

Copyright © 2024 All rights reserved

Slingshot Wizards And Me Da Was One Of Them

26 June 2024

1120

R. Linda:

Maybe you heard that in California, an 81-year-old man was arrested for victimising his neighbours with a slingshot! Seems certain neighbours had their windows smashed by ball bearings that would come whizzing through their homes, and some, their car windscreens and even missiles aimed at themselves. Yikers! This went on for a good decade it did. 

The old man became known as the "serial slingshot shooter" of Azusa, California! Seems the police were called to take care of a "quality of life issue" that had garnered complaints from residents of North Enid Ave. that someone with a slingshot was wreaking havoc on them and their property, and they wanted it stopped. 

The suspected "serial slingshot shooter" was named as one Prince King. With a name like that, no wonder he might be confused and battling royal demons or something just as bizarre . . . like ball bearings. Anyway, a search warrant was issued and found inside the culprit's home were ball bearings and an incriminating SLINGSHOT.

Lt. Jake Bushey of the Azusa Police Department said they had been investigating this nuisance disturbance from the get-go but just found the miscreant recently. Bushey wasn't sure how they found Prince King, but maybe it was the number of ball bearings that came from the direction of Mr. King's backyard. I wonder if the dropped ball bearings scattered about the backyard gave them a clue.

No one knows why Mr. King slingshotted his neighbours but chalked it up to "malicious mischief." Bushy stated the shots weren't random and that he did not know why certain people and homes were targeted. To add insult to injury, the Azusa Police Department's FaceBook page had plenty of commenters complaining they, too, had their windscreens shot out. However, they weren't sure Mr. King was the person who "done it."

Mr. King has a date with the court, as you can imagine. 

All this had me remembering my dear sainted Da and HIS penchant for his slingshot that he named "Molly-Girl." A rather lethal weapon it was, too. Constructed of heavy oak wood, with a thick rubber band about an inch and a half wide, with a leather piece in the centre threaded through the elastic that held a marble really well. When fired, the thing was dangerous . . . and accurate. And, just know he was a marksman firing that thing. Didn't miss, not once that I know of.

Where he had got this weapon for making holes in heads, arms, torsos, legs, etc., I do not know. What happened to "Molly-Girl" I also do not know. I remember her well, though. When we lived with me Grandparents for a short time in Southern Ireland, me Gran had a cherry tree of which she was very proud. This tree gave off the sweetest dark cherries one could have tasted. We looked forward to the fruit every summer, we did. 

She'd hire local men to climb this massive tree and gather cherries in brown paper bags. She'd give them an agreed quantity for the picking, so no monies were exchanged, just fruit. This tree was huge and it was tall, so risking lives for cherries was what these men did. But the fruit was worth it.

Of course, from the road, you could see this heavily laden tree. And, of course, when the pickers took the fruit of their labour home, and others tasted the sweetness, well, many others coveted those cherries.

It wasn't unusual to hear a rustling in the tree at night that signalled Grandma's tree was being pilfered. For some reason, instead of chasing the poachers away, Da would go up to the attic and out the window onto the roof, where he had a good view of the tree below. There, he would sit with his dear "Molly-Girl" and a bag of marbles. 

My bedroom was on the tree side of the house, and I can remember being awakened in the dead of night to shouts and screams and sometimes breaking branches as poachers fell out of that great tree with loud thuds. You'd think these cherry thieves would learn after one such foray, but no, for at least six years, they came and tried every summer harvest, and like clockwork, Molly-Girl appeared to do her combat work. 

Me Mam was never a fan of this behaviour on me Da's part. Me Gran was all about saving that fruit and not happy anyone without her permission would pillage and plunder that tree of hers. I often wonder if that tree is still there. I wonder what happened to that infamous slingshot and what possessed my father to hunt cherry thieves and not call the local constabulary. Knowing him as I did, I think the thrill consumed him. As probably did Prince King. Only me, Da, thought he was protecting our property, and the other guy . . . 

Gabe

Copyright © 2024 All rights reserved

Tornados and Meat Products

 25 June 2024

1119

R. Linda:

During the pandemic, everyone flocked to the markets and bought out every food item. We found ourselves buying food-to-table products from local farmers. Yes, it was expensive, but when there are not enough food items on the market shelves, you have little choice if you want to eat. The food from the farms was excellent, and we ate more healthily than we ever had.

Things did return to normal, with the only run on food items being when a nor'easter came our way. Then everybody made a bread and milk run, and if it was a hurricane, meat and meat, and more meat! 

On Sunday, the entire state was under a tornado warning—yes, something new. Everyone found this hard to believe. This tiny state has had a couple of microbursts, but nothing like the Midwest is subject to like tornados and straight-line wind bursts that flatten trees—nothing catastrophic.

So the wife, who always err on the side of caution, suggested I run to the local market and pick up food supplies, "Just in case." Mam was somewhat terrified that she'd never lived where there were tornados, and this was a scary idea that now she just might not live through one. I ran to the market, and there was nothing, I mean nothing on the shelves, so remembering the process during the pandemic, I stopped at the local farm stand near me home. I was amazed at the amount of meats offered, and I wasn't so sure any of them would go over well at home.

Here look at this:

Seems when meat supplies are down, roadkill works

I don't know where the mongoose originated, but I picked up 2 lbs. mystery meat, eyes and all. Yup, I did. When I got home, I told the ladies about the shortage at the supermarket, but I was able to procure  2 lbs. of ground beef. Yes, I lied. I took the eyes out and dumped those in the bin. I threw the plastic wrapper away and put cello wrap over the mystery fare, and with a magic marker, I wrote, 2 Lbs. Ground. And left it at that. 

Around 2 p.m., the sky had turned dark. There was a slight breeze but no rain, lightning, or thunder. Mam had the local news station on, and there was our weatherman from Denver doing the Colorado weather that he told us was really New Hampshire weather, but we knew better. 

As it happened, Sean was over in Goffstown visiting a friend who had bought a piece of land and had a trailer on it as he waited for the builder to come and create his "dream home." Denver weather said, "If you are in a trailer, you must find shelter elsewhere." The tornado was gearing up, and a black shelf cloud over Goffstown with a funnel forming. We could see it on the telly, so I rang up Sean, and he said he knew, and he and his friend were at a house next door and ready to head for the basement if things got worse. He said there was a high wind, and the lightning was fierce, but they were, for the moment, ok, except they were surrounded by trees.

I told Mam and Tonya all that, and as we were talking, the funnel dissipated upwards, but the warning was still in effect. Sean texted that everything outside was returning to calm, the breeze had died down, and the thunder had stopped. The storm was heading to Manchester. 

Oh no,  O'Hare was in Manchester visiting the museum. Right away, Tonya was on the phone ringing our eldest. He was in the basement with a bunch of smelly people, said he, in whispered tones. They were all anxious, but they were in the basement, which smelled musty and was not his cup of tea. In addition to that, someone's service dog was down there with them, whining and making everyone nervous. He said they were all blaming climate change and that Bernie Sanders wasn't crazy when he said climate change was a "huge" threat 8 years ago. 

"They are all down here saying they should have voted for Bernie. Good times down here in the cellar," he added. "Never did I think I'd be huddling in a basement because of a possible tornado near me." 

"The cloud (with what is trying to turn into a funnel) is 7 minutes away from you," Tonya told him.

"That really doesn't help, Ma. We could see the cloud when we were upstairs. The dog is sending my anxiety through the roof right now."

"The funnel isn't forming, and the cloud seems to be moving past you now. It is moving fast, they think, to the coast." Then, turning to me, she said, "Do you remember the tornados we had when we first moved up here? Me neither." She laughed at my shaking head. 

As Tonya was talking to O'Hare and trying to calm him down. Denver weather was yammering when HIS phone alert went off, which threw him for a loop. Then the city sirens started to go off (did I mention the studio is in Manchester?), and his eyes got real big. He looks at the camera and says, "We at the studio don't have a basement or many walls between us and the tornado activity. We will stay on air and see what happens." Oh good. That was encouraging -- not! 

"Yes, an jus' wat I wanna see on live telly, " Mam said, looking worried. 

I had been watching the live stream of the black shelf as it travelled over Manchester and thought the funnel was gone entirely. The thing was lifting a bit. It didn't look as threatening as it had. Meanwhile, Denver's weatherman's eyes were huge in his head as he kept chattering about tornados and the damage they do. The other weather person cut him off and said the tornado was dissolving, but it could regain strength at any time, so the watches were still in effect for the coastal communities because that's where it was; it had left Manchester rather quickly. 

Tonya had given O'Hare the all-clear, and Mam, out of nervous energy, was preparing dinner in the kitchen. 

"Watz dis?" She asked, seeing no label on the meat. 

"It be from the farm store, no labels." I lied. 

After a frightening afternoon, everyone got home safe and sound and no worse for wear. As to dinner, everyone seemed to enjoy the festival of flavours they savoured except for yours truly, who had a pop tart instead. The excuse was I was feeling a bit off from such an exciting afternoon. Uh-huh.

Gabe

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Where are Gabriel's Packages?

 24 June 2024

1118

R. Linda:

Amazon delivery (while still needing a few tweaks) is better than UPS, USPS, and my nemesis, FedEx. 

I also noticed in me accounts on Amazon, eBay, and Etsy that there is a startling difference in when a product will arrive. 

For example, if I order anything on Etsy and want it fast, I must tell the seller, or I will wait nearly a month for the order to arrive. eBay sellers are a wee bit faster in shipping, and Amazon, this is where a tweak or two would come in. I pay for Amazon Prime and expect next to two-day delivery as promised, but there have been times I waited a few weeks for an order. That makes me wonder what I am paying Prime premium for. If I don't get what I paid for on the promised delivery date, I waste money on a non-service. While this can be irksome, I live with it when it happens. And it's been happening more often.

Delivery times aside, I would that FedEx would stop with the Where's Waldo type puzzle when it comes to my packages. It is where is Gabe's package located? Is it at a neighbour's? Is it dumped by the side of the road somewhere, and if so, on what road? Is it even in the same town where Gabe lives? Most times, it is delivered to me mailbox, not me door. That would be fine, but the box or boxes are usually stuffed inside the mailbox (which is not a small one), and I struggle to get the boxes free of the mailbox. This action has impressed USPS that they will do the same! The mailbox wiggles on its post from the many times I've had to free up jammed packages out of it.

FedEx has the nerve to ask how was the delivery

USPS is just as bad. At least they know where I live. Unlike FedEx, which thinks I have a bogus address and live somewhere I don't know of. However, USPS will jam packages in, so it is nearly impossible to free them. Not only that, if the package is large, instead of delivering it to my door, they will put the package at the base of the pole that holds the mailbox. Yes, I have come home to packages in the road, or worse, thrown in the poison ivy behind the mailbox (which I am highly allergic to). 

The only carriers who actually deliver to the door are UPS and DHL. Kudos to those services. I have had pleasant exchanges with the UPS driver, except when there was a substitute for the regular guy. I saw the truck pull in, and I was on the side of the house. I went to get the delivery and stood behind the truck when I heard BOOM! BAM! BANG! It sounded like boxes were being thrown. This concerned me because Tonya had ordered a breakable, and well, I wasn't sure the gorilla in the truck wasn't bouncing her package around. He pushed the back doors open with a lot of force and seemed embarrassed to see me standing there. Sheepishly, he handed me the package. I didn't hear any tinkling of glass, but I was suspicious. Luckily, the item was in one piece, but I had to wonder about the rest of those boxes. I guess he was having a bad day. Uh-huh.

DHL delivers on time. They come to the door, drop off packages, and go on their way—no problems. Just don't ask them to uncrate; they don't like that.

The best score for honesty goes to Patagonia. These guys let you know when your package is being shipped and how it is being shipped.

So once you see how your product is being shipped, you can approximate its delivery time. And if there is a delay, they let you know that, too.

Yes! They show you why it is being delayed

Why can't all the rest be so honest and provide photographs in transit so you know the damn package is coming to a mailbox or garage or even a culvert near you (maybe near you). 

Gabe

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The Banana Team Gets Mashed In Fortnite

31 May 2024

1117

R. Linda:

Aren't these new online games wonderful? You can play anytime with someone or someone from around the world. It's a long way from Pac-man and PlayStation 1, I can tell you that much. Me boyos have been at these games for years. This is all new to yours truly. I've heard of these games and watched the wee one build things using his Minecraft proggie, but Fortnite is a whole new ballgame.

Cousin Sean is a veteran player of Fortnite, and there have been nights I've seen him and O'Hare at their controls yelling, cursing like troopers, and having what looks like a good time despite themselves. At other times, they laugh their fool heads off. I got the impression there was a bit of violence in this game. Of course, the quite audible pow-pow-pow was also a hint, along with the sounds of explosions.  

Now, Guido is the one who brought my attention to Fortnite. The middle son has adopted the f-word as his favourite and peppers his speech with it, much to the horror of his Gran. She has politely asked him, "Please ta not use dat werd when speakin' ta me." He tries but is so used to using it that he can't help himself. Then his mother gets on him, and they argue, and well, the f-word abounds it does. 

We can all be down in the living room watching the telly with the sound turned up (Mam is losing hearing), and up above us, we can hear the anger and f-word bombs being tossed at whoever is on the other end of Guido's gaming controls, usually in a different country. 

"He needs to be stopped," Mam announced, getting up and turning the sound down. "Jus' listen ta 'em."

With the sound down, we could hear things like" "You rotten f-ing son of a bitch, what is wrong with you?" and "I said grab those guns and what the f did you do? Are you stupid?!" and "You're such a f-ing loser!" All screamed at the top of his lungs in an angry voice.

I went upstairs and walked into this tirade. 

"Who are you shouting obscenities at?" I asked.

"Sean, that's who," Guido answered.

"Me cousin?" I asked in disbelief. "Anyone else?"

"Yeah, Aunt Sheila, she's ruining everything. I told her to watch out, and she keeps getting killed because she doesn't f-ing listen."

I stood there horrified that me own kiddo was cursing at his aunt, me sissy. Sean, well, who cares -- but Sheila?

I needn't have worried because her voice came over with a bucket full of obscenities directed at Guido for not paying attention. I found out they all rage at each other, and no offence is taken. Try explaining this to two educated women who are examples of manners and politeness. It didn't wash. Mam was all for looking up an anger control class for Guido, and when she found out her own daughter was a culprit, she started to look up one for her, too, over in Ireland. Sean, she didn't care, "'Eees an 'opless case 'ee iz."

Between Tonya and I, we had somewhat turned down the volume, so to speak, with Guido, though it didn't last long. I was interested in how this game was played and why the rage level was ultra-high.

I sat down one evening with the eldest, O'Hare. He offered to show me a game and handed me a headset and controller. Then he went through a bunch of character disguises. I could choose one, but then Sean returned and announced they were all (Sean, Sheila, and Guido) teaming up as Team Banana. Mystified, I watched as O'Hare flipped through the online banana costumes. 

Once my character was dressed as a banana, I stood in a small spotlight as the others appeared on the screen. I found me banana character doing the Macarena, then Gangnam Style dances as we waited to be activated. Once we were placed with other players, my banana character stood next to a rather aggressive chickie, and I found Guido and me dancing around her. She looked uncomfortable, but the game hadn't started so . . . 

As O'Hare was explaining the game controller to me, Sheila started whining. 

"I don't wont to be a bonona," She said, signing off in a huff. I was amazed she'd get so worked up and leave just for that. 

"We were willing to give her the Peely Banana name." A deflated Sean sighed.

I was dropped into the game, me online persona, a banana with an automatic rifle, was named Potassius Peels. I was told to shoot anything that moved that wasn't dressed as a banana. I was also told (since I had made my way to an arsenal of guns) to collect them. Since I was on the outskirts of the "action", I was then directed to build a shelter to house the weapons and mainly to avoid the Storm that damages all players outside the safe zone, which is where I was! Who knew!

Meanwhile, my teammate Bananas explored the "island" and engaged in combat. I had the shelter built and guns inside, and then I was told by Sean, AKA Adventure Peely Banana (he made a pretty girl banana if not for the fat side), to watch out for an armed fish headed my way. There was another team of battle fish that were out to get us bananas. It sounds bananas, I know. I was making my way with a few guns towards the safe zone or trying to anyway when this fish came out of nowhere and nearly peeled me to the ground. But Sean, Adventure Peely Banana, put him down. The fish was incapacitated and started moving off on hands and knees, or fins, but the bananas got hold of him and dragged him to the golf cart that Sean and O'Hare, AKA Agent Peely, had absconded with from somewhere. They threw the fish in the back and drove him around with them and me as we picked up Guido, AKA Lil Split Banana, who was fending off more fish behind a rock and cursing his fool head off in the process. He jumped in as we covered him, shooting at the fish and got a few as we headed off to the bluffs. There, the captured fish was thrown off into the sea. "What a way to go!" Sean exploded with joy.

"Uh, no, he can swim," I pointed out to the deflated Sean Adventure Peely.

Somehow, I found meself out of the cart and in the hills of Brutal Beach. I was warned several times by me teammates that there were enemies on my left or right, and I'd take aim and shoot, and I got most of them dead. A few crawled off, but I wasn't wasting time with those. However, if Sean saw one, he would end that player. He's savage, I tell ya. 

At one point, I found meself in a melee where Sean and I were fending several other teams off. With so much going on and all the shooting, I ran for what looked like a Mad Max spiked-up go-cart and jumped in but missed the driver's side and found meself in the backseat with some other player at the wheel. The guy didn't know what to do with me in the backseat, and we drove around. We were hit by another vehicle, and the other fell out. I don't know where he went, but I fended off more baddies and seeing the same vehicle was righted, I made for it again, only this time I found meself in the backseat surrounded by another team that had also jumped in. Once again, I was driven around, and no one, including meself, knew what to do. But after a ride over the beach and up into the hills, one of them decided I needed to die, so that was it. Killed in the backseat of a go-cart! I tell ya. 

I played seven games. That's all I was good for. I was getting the hang of it, but it was getting repetitive. I went off to bed, leaving O'Hare and the rest to continue on. I dreamt of bananas running around different places all night with guns, and I have to tell ya, I got little sleep. I wonder how people play this every day, and every waking hour they get the chance. 

Gabe

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Revenge By Proxy

 22 May 2024

1116

R. Linda:

Well, well, well! I didn't think this would ever happen, but it did. An unwelcome blast from the past name was mentioned the other day, and it was quite the tale that was told to me. I have a cousin back in Ireland who was the bane of me existence. I hated her visits and would hide from her. Me sainted cousin would instruct me sister Sheila and meself on being good children and respectful citizens. She was filled with prissy notions that we should care how we dress, how we speak, etc. She was most annoying to an extreme, and every time Mam would say, "Your cousin Oonagh be coming over today, please be nice and entertain her. Don't ya run off now."

We ran off on three occasions, paid the price of no dinner, and spent the evening reading books in our room. No TV, no snacks, we weren't allowed to talk to each other, and this, of course, made us dislike Oonagh more. She was four years older than me sissy, so she thought she knew it all and acted like it. We were living at the time, on me grandparent's farm in the Republic. SHE was living the grand life in Bangor, NI. Her father was quite a ways up in the running of Ulster County, so they had a lot more than we ever did. 

Oonagh lorded it over us she did. She was one of those people who was over prideful and vain. She was always in dresses and expensive shoes and carried a purse, which we made fun of behind her back. No one in my sissy's circle of friends did that. That purse was used as a lecture item on one occasion.

"Did YOU know that the QUEEN carries her purse on her left side? Yes, she does. And when she is aggrieved by someone, she switches it to her right as a signal she desires her minions to save her from said bore."

We had to sit through an entire lecture on the Queen's purse and how to properly use one. Like I was going to need that information, and if you knew me sister, she would be the last person to care about the proper side to wear a purse. 

As for me, I had to demonstrate pulling out a chair at the dinner table for Oonagh to sit upon and then whip her napkin on her lap. All this I was instructed by HRH was what a gentleman does for a lady. And I would not have demonstrated this, but Mam told me to show her what Oonagh had taught me! 

So it was with delight and glee I listened to me sister's blow-by-blow of what happened to Ms. Oonagh when she came to visit Sheila not too long ago. Seems our Oonagh has mellowed a bit. She's been divorced five times, and each time, it took a toll on her as being seen as unfit to keep a wealthy husband. I guess it was because she spent all their money and they were beside themselves, so divorce city it was FIVE TIMES! Who does that?

It was after number five had had enough of her haughty ways and outrageous spending that she paid a visit to Sheila. Of course, her manners were still intact, and she did warn me Sissy she would be stopping by. This meant Sheila had to go out and buy the best tea available, make homemade scones and be sure to have clotted cream and jams available for the royal visit. Yessir, better her than me.

Now, something you should know about Sheila. Besides being a rebel all her life (and still is), she thinks nothing of munching on THC gummies to take the stress off. She started taking them for her anxiety. This stumps me because, if anything, Sheila be the last person in the world that seems anxious. The royal visit stressed her, which is hard to believe because, if anything, Sheila be an overly strong personality. Nothing seems to bother her. Well, feeling mellow, she was prepared for Oonagh. Said royal arrived all flustered and embarrassed by her latest divorce and, with lace hanky in hand, fluttered about the living room looking for a clean chair to sit in. With hanky at the ready, she brushed the seat of her selection and sat it down, then the arms of said chair. This, you can well understand, annoyed me sissy. Her furniture was old but clean and well . . . the royal nerve!

Listening to the sob story (between sobs), Sheila said something like, "Let me get you some refreshments that will make you feel better." And off she went to bring in the tea things. While she was busy in the other room, Oonagh, being quite a blubbery mess, saw a candy dish full of what looked like little raspberry candies. She picked one up and looked at it. It was gummy, so because her throat was raw from all the wailing she was doing, she popped one in her mouth. Now Sheila had forgotten the gummies were out in her haste to answer the door so the royal personage could step inside. 

As soon as the kettle was ready, Sheila poured the water into her ceramic teapot (for looks, how would it be to serve from the kettle, huh?). She set the infuser in, and this took a bit of time, time which she was drawing out not wanting to go back into the living room, but alas, she couldn't put it off any longer, so in she went with the tray ladened with tea things and goodies.

She nearly dropped the tray because as she reappeared, there was Oonagh, the scarf she had worn so decorously wrapped over the back of the chair, her short waist suit jacket crumpled on the floor, and pricey shoes kicked off. Still, the look on her face of dreamy oblivion nearly caused a commotion on Sheila's part, so stunned was she by this unusual transformation.

"Arr, ye all right?" Sheila asked, stupified. 

"Oh, my gracious good goodness, I don't know what's wrong with me? Suddenly, this feeling of lightheadedness came over me, and I got hot. Then I felt drowsy."

Sheila spied the gummies on the table next to Oonagh. Before she could ask if Oonagh had helped herself to the "candy", Oonagh raised up out of her chair and pointed at the wall behind Sheila.

"You painted rainbows! How do you get them to move like that?" 

Uh oh. Just how many gummies did Oonagh help herself to? The wall was white. There were no rainbows and certainly not any movable ones floating about the wall. 

Sheila, too stunned to utter a word, watched as if in slow motion as Oonagh's hand went for another gummie. 

"Nooo, Oonagh, stop! Those arr . . . " Sheila put the tea things down with a bit of a crash and went for the bowl full of feel-good. Swinging it up out of Oonagh's reach, she laughed self-consciously and mumbled something about the gummies looking like candy, but weren't they medication? Of course, this was all above Oonagh's head because she was very high R. Linda, so high she wasn't comprehending a word out of Sheila's mouth. No indeed. 

The visit, which was to be a short one on Sheila's part, lasted hours, and I mean hours, as Sheila did everything she could to bring her guest "down" from the heights of THC dreamland that she could think of. She estimated Ms. Oonagh partook of at least three gummies, enough to make a horse win the Royal Ascot Derby thrice and all at once!

When I heard all this and the aftermath of Oonagh finally sobering up to understand what he ingested and repeating to Sheila over and over, she let her manners down by helping herself instead of asking her hostess for a piece of "candy." The whoa is her about succumbing to lower class behaviour, etc., etc., etc. She said she'd never live it down. Well, she won't because Sheila has started off conversations with, "Remember when you were high at my house?" and "You know Oonagh, I be tinking of paintin' rainbows on dat wall you taught already had 'em when . . . " Well, I had to laugh and laugh and laugh, and I got it out of me system that finally Oonagh was acting like an ordinary citizen and not one of the high and mighty. 

I tell ya, revenge by sister (even accidentally) be sweet. 

Gabe

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