Club Packs of Creepy

I get hit on at Costco.  Sort of.  I sound like I have a bit of an ego problem but I can tell when someones reaction to me is friendlier that what would be typical.  There are two cashiers working at the store whose greetings are rivalled only by those of my German Shepherd, so I feel in my right to assume that these guys are quite happy to see me.

One cashier is merely super-duper friendly, while the other one actually reached out and touched my arm during one visit, which is creepy and totally unacceptable by my standards. A third cashier thought it appropriate to comment on my hair, which makes him a contender for this club that I'm forming, but I'm giving him a free pass for now because my hair is always in need of validation.

My dad doesn't have a Costco membership, so whenever he visits we make a point of going there such that he can load up on razor blades, cereal, and whatever else he's into at the time.  On our most recent shopping expedition, I noticed that I was just part of a trend.

My dad was chatting up a woman who was about my age who had about 20 apple pies in her cart.  He was trying to be cute by inviting himself to the apple pie party that she was clearly throwing.  She handled this quite gracefully until I interrupted  them by apologizing and steering him away from her.  "He sometimes wanders away from the home", I offered. My dad seemed undaunted.

Next came the woman with the clipboard and red vest, who seems to have the job of observing the cashiers.  "How are you today, sir?" she asked my dad.

"Couldn't be better!", he replied and then launched into a spiel about why life is so great.

He mentioned her as we were walking out to the car.  "That girl looked very exotic, don't you think?"

They must be putting something in the free samples.

Big Pharma is Watching?

I have recently made a couple of on-line purchases and have been eagerly awaiting the arrival of my stuff.  After all, who doesn't love getting stuff in the mail?  Just other day I came home to find one of those Canada Post post-it notes on my front door, advising me to come pick up my package.  Yay!  Stuff!!!!

The next day was a crappy day weather-wise to go out, but my stuff was waiting for me so I made it a priority to go get it.

As I stood in line at the drug store's postal outlet, I imagined the package I would be receiving.  Would it be a rainbow assortment of silicone eyeglass cases from China?  My mom made me order those.  Or would it be my polar vortex inspired boots.  I was really hoping that it was the boots.  The polar vortex phenomenon had caused an influx of boot purchases in the Toronto area, leaving only size ox or size munchkin in all the stores.  As an average size 7, I was going to have to endure the rest of the winter in a leaky pair if I couldn't have purchased something on line.

When it was my turn, I gave my receipt to the postal worker, anxious to see the size of the box he would produce for me.  It was small-ish.  The eyeglass cases, I guessed.  At least my mom would be happy.

Hmmmm, I said out loud, looking at the box.  It was not a brown cardboard box, but a Similac baby formula box.

"Huh?" I inquired to no one in particular.  Then I looked up at the postal worker.  "Maybe they just sent my stuff in a Similac box?

"This is for a baby", the postal worker offered.

"I know who it's for, Dumbass!", I more or less said, but keeping the 'dumbass' part in my head, "but I don't have a baby, so I'm not sure why they sent it."

"They might send it out to expectant mothers, in anticipation of a baby", the postal clerk replied.

"I'm not expecting a baby either!", was my bewildered retort, not sure why I was barking at the clerk.

"Even if it is really early in the pregnancy, they still might send it to you...", the clerk began, while I shook my head, not sure how to disengage from the conversation.  I just signed for it and left.

Upon arriving home, I opened the box to find a Similac starter kit, along with a note that was specifically addressed to me.

In anticipation of your new arrival, we would like to offer you this sample of our formula blah blah blah.

Whhhaaaat?

I'm not pregnant.  I'm not!  I would know!  I'm sure I would at least know before the baby formula marketers.  So where did this come from?  I've even been getting follow-up mail from the same company, giving me coupons for their product.  So my guesses are:

1.  My text conversations with my pregnant friend #1 have been monitored, but there was a mix up about who was pregnant

2.  My facebook emails with my pregnant friend #2 have been monitored, but there was a mix up about who was pregnant

3.  My internet search for prego friend #1 regarding a specific cough medicine was monitored, and an assumption was made.

4.  The makers of Similac have a malfunctioning crystal ball.

Any other guesses?

Gratitude Journal Episode 1

For a good stretch of time this year, I had a thing going on with three friends where we would each send out a list of our top three things that we were grateful for that day.  It was just for fun, and also to assist each other in appreciating the little things in life.  We stopped because of summer laziness or something, but I miss it.  I also have had some funny ones that never manifested themselves into print because I wasn't sure if the others still wanted my lists.  You want them though, right?  Here's the best of today:

Prune Juice!  Total magic!  (now you know why I held back)  I have never needed help in the digestive department before but something has been up lately and I had to do something.

I decided to give prune juice a try based on the testament of my good friend who has had such problems since I met her in Jr. high school.  She pretty much kept prune juice in a vial around her neck, brought it with her to slumber parties, and became famous for drinking it when she worked in a summer resort one year.  She probably invented a new mixed drink with it as well.

Anyhow, I chugged a glass of it yesterday, and hoped for the best.

This morning I had an appointment at 10:30 and then planned to drive home.  It was on the drive home when I realized that my experiment was a success.  Pity about being in transit though.  I was certain that I was not going to make it home, so I found myself pulling into my absolute favourite shopping mall, despite my plan to have a quiet day at home.

All went well in the ladies room, although I'm not sure any of the other ladies would agree.  I couldn't believe how great I was feeling afterwards and actually bothered to send a message to my prune juice friend to thank her for being there in spirit with me.  I'm sure that she appreciated the interruption in her work day for that.

Then I took a look around and realized that I was at my favourite mall.  The Universe loves me.

Ghost of the Valley

I never hear the howling anymore.

The first time it caught my attention was while walking the dogs in my local park.   OHHHHHHHHHWAOOOOOOOOO... was what it sounded like, off in a distance.  Wolves?  Coyotes?  I wasn't sure.

I continued on with my walk, all the while listening to the sound of maybe some sick animal that more or less resembled an eerie ghost from an episode of Scooby Doo.

OOOHHHEEEEYOOOOOOOOOWAAAAAAAARAAAAAAAA.....

It was getting louder.  I was obviously walking toward whatever it was, and noticed the fluctuating intonation.

Not an animal, I deduced.  But what, then?  It didn't sound human, but it didn't sound like anything recognizable from the standpoint of a walk along a wooded trail.  I became nervous.

LAAAAAAAAEEEEYOOOOORAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWW 

It was almost like a crescendo.

Then I caught site of the source.  Alone by the riverbank, gearing up to let out another ghostly howl, stood an elderly Asian man, belting out opera at the top of his lungs.

My Good Deed of the Day. Sort of.

Now that Google Reader is no longer, I can assume that the traffic on my site will now be reduced to friends of mine who are badgered by me into checking out my latest attempt at crafting a funny joke.  Kind of gives me some artistic freedom though.  It's the blog equivalent of 'dance like no one is watching'.  No one really is watching! I can even start making fun of people if I want!

My intent is not to actually make fun of anyone here, but to detail a bizarre event I had recently with my friend's 85 year old mother in law.

I had not actually seen the elderly woman in a couple of years but while visiting this particular friend recently, her MIL was hanging out in the kitchen, waiting for us to leave so she could commence her babysitting duties.  I sat and chatted with her while we waited for my friend to get ready.

The next day my phone rang.  Recognizing the name on call display, I answered with trepidation, wondering why B's MIL was calling me.

She began by explaining that she didn't recognize me the other night due to her poor eyesight.  It wouldn't have really mattered to me as she was pleasant enough, and I tried to assure the woman that there was no need to apologize as I never would have known.

This was not the purpose of her call though.  She went on to mention that she remembers that I have two daughters.  She then informed me that she makes clothing for these little 'babies' all day. (she was referring to dolls and their clothes).  She explained, "I don't smoke, I don't drink, I don't go shopping, so making clothes for these babies is what I do to keep sane!  Now, the problem is that I don't have any more real babies to give my babies to".

Rather than questioning whether or not making doll's clothing was in fact actually keeping her sane, I let her continue on about all the babies that she's given to children over the years, including strangers on the bus.  Then of course I was invited to bring my daughters over to each pick a baby.  I told her that I would set a visit up with my friend, B, the next time I was in that part of town.

"NO, you'll set it up with ME, NOW!", came the reply from the older woman.  Imagine this with her South African accent and it gets funnier and scarier somehow.

Feeling bullied and somewhat like Hansel and Gretel, I explained that my kids are in camp all day so it would have to be on a weekend.  She then gave me an earful about putting my kids in camp for such a long day, and how tired they must be.  She eventually accepted our schedule and penned me in for an upcoming Saturday afternoon.

I begged B to join me for this upcoming adventure but she was all, "NO WAY JOSE! You're on your own!"

So I packed up the kids on a beautiful Saturday afternoon that would have been ideal for swimming, and made my way downtown to face my dreaded appointment.

The first thing I noticed was that the apartment was not air conditioned.  This particular day was a scorcher too.  She did have a window unit in one room, which we were led into first, as it was 'the room of dolls'.

It wasn't like a scene from Hoarders or anything.  It was quite orderly.  But in a 2 bedroom 700 square foot apartment, shelves and shelves of floor to ceiling dolls seemed somewhat weird.

Then the woman started going through each doll, one by one, explaining them to me.  "This one was given to me by my daughter, this one is from the gift shop at the hospital, and This one...well, if Rudy Huxtable can have a black Cabbage Patch doll, well so can I!  It went on for a while.

Then she suggested that we let my kids tear up the room while we go sit down (in the non-air conditioned part of the apartment).  While sitting there, she decided to show me her battery powered cat collection.  Yup, turn them on and they purr, and move their heads.  Next came the wooden mushroom collection, and then all the 'As Seen on TV' gadgets that she uses to help herself out with mundane tasks.

Looking out on the balcony, I noticed that it was covered in birds, birdseed, and copious amounts of less pleasant evidence of birds.

All the while, the kids thought that this was great!  They had so much to play with and no one was telling them what to do.  I suspect that this was the highlight of the elderly woman's day too.  She does have plenty of family in the city, but somehow came across as needy for company.

There is no punchline here.  Except that I was really weirded out by the whole event.  And oddly enough, I feel compelled to go back.  On a cooler day.

Talk About a Bad Omen!

On the evening of May 13th, the Huz and I settled in to watch what turned out to be the last Leafs game of this year's playoff season.

I'm not a huge hockey fan, but it had been so long since we actually made the playoffs that I had a little hunger for the excitement of it all.  I used to love watching the games with friends over wings and beer, but as friends got married, had kids, and couldn't come out to play anymore, watching hockey kind of lost its cachet for me.

There we were, ahead by two points, with about two minutes left to play.  "I can't believe this is happening!"  I said cheerfully, wondering if I'd be able to make some sort of social event out of the next series.

Boston managed to score two goals in those last couple of minutes, which tied up the game and sent us into overtime.  "I can't believe this is happening", I said dismally, trying to think of another reason to have company over for a night of booze and junk food.

My computer then started 'bleep blooping' in the familiar way that it does when someone calls me on Skype.  I knew it was my dad, since he's the only one who ever calls.

"Hey Dad", I started, bracing myself for a bad joke about the Leafs

As it turned out, he wasn't calling about hockey.  He hadn't actually realized that the game was on or he would have been watching it himself.  No, he was calling to give me the new details of his eventual cremation.

Before I go any further, you should know that my dad is not sick.  He just knows what he wants in death and has made certain that he gets it.  Actually, he and his second wife both thought that they knew what they wanted in death, and made their arrangements together years ago.  Now that they are no longer married, neither one wants to be buried in the spot that they originally chose and paid for, let alone side by side.  The lesson here is that it is sometimes possible to plan TOO far ahead.

Anyhow, my dad now has new plans, and he was calling just before the start of the game seven overtime period to let me know about them.

"Dad", I asked, "do you feel healthy enough to have this conversation after the next goal?"

When he realized that he was missing the game too, he quickly hung up, agreeing to talk about it later.

For those of you who followed the game, you know that the Leafs lost.  Shortly after Boston scored the goal that ended it for us, I got an e-mail from my dad offering his condolences.  And of course his cremation details.

STAAAAAANLYYYYYYY

I put a fair bit of value on having good hair.  Mine is naturally curly, and I pretty much learned how to make it look nice at the young age of 32.  Ever since then, I stopped wearing baseball caps, pony tails, banana clips, you name it.  Now I always make an effort to leave the house with good hair.  (although I would still like to bring back the banana clip if I could only find a good supply of them)

As of this year, I have become a pool owner.  Leading up to the completion of the pool, I was actually giving thought to the hair issue. I wasn't sure if I was going to still style my hair each morning given the likelihood of my hair coming 'un-done' in the water.  And what if I needed to zip out after a morning swim, but prior to an afternoon swim?  Would I fix my hair in between?  Would I always be able to predict when I'd be going swimming?  Good hair vs. carefree swimming; quite the conundrum, dontcha think?

This past week-end was the inaugural swim-fest at my house.  It was a long week-end, so my family spent the better part of three amazing days turning into prunes while we enjoyed the new addition to our yard.  But there were some points in time when I had to step out.  There were people to feed and shopping to be done.

So did Stacy and Clinton's ten years of training stick?

NO!  I didn't even swim today and I was at the grocery store in a baseball cap and minimal make-up.  Worse yet, over the week-end when I had guests here, I was all mu-mu and big floppy hat.

So that's my look now.  I'm either a frumpy 12 year old boy, or if you catch me at home, Mrs. Roper.