The Littlest Hobo…

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It’s a sad day here at work. I think my little friend has moved on… to what, I’m not sure, but he’s gone. Packed up and gone.

My little friend is “Winston”. I affectionately named him that the day I discovered him. The name “Winston” just sort of suits him. He’s a spider who has lived outside my office window for months, you know,  just hanging around day after day. Several times now I thought he’d left for good, only to find out he’d merely moved his web to a new spot, either sunnier, or drier, or just better. But today, I don’t see him anywhere. No web, no little legs dangling down, no nothing.

A close comparison to what Winston looked like. Minus the grin of course.

I should point out that I’m not particularly fond of bugs, especially spiders, but since he has kept mainly to himself and nowhere near me or my belongings, I kinda liked having him here. Had I encountered him running across my computer screen, or sitting on my desk, or {gasp} meandering amidst the contents in my candy drawer, well then, we may have a different kind of relationship. No one steals my candy. No one.

This is me when it comes to my candy…

Luckily, Winston lived in the great outdoors, and was no threat to my candy supply. (thank heavens!)

That being said, a year or so ago I did have a spider in my office who I affectionately named “Norman” and he lived in the big binders that house the old microfiche files. I stumbled upon him one day as he was quickly getting out of my way. I let him stay in his little “binder” house because he was kind enough to leave anytime I needed to look through his house for a film strip. And truth be known, he was too big and scary looking for me to get involved in having a battle over boundaries or property lines. I just let him be. Then one day, Norman left too. I found him a few months later, deceased, on the bottom shelf of the bookcase – not far from his house. {sigh} That was a sad day too. (though now I wonder if “Nanna” had anything to do with Norman’s death… hahaha… the story of Nanna and her homicidal tendencies towards insects can be found here.)

It reminded me of the old Canadian tv show called The Littlest Hobo. For those of you around the world who aren’t familiar with it, it is a sort of Canadian version of a homeless Lassie, except Lassie’s human costars actually had talent. The Littlest Hobo originally aired back in 1979 (through 1985) and has been in syndication many times over the years. I watched it a few times in the last six months or so, merely because it was like watching a car accident happen… I couldn’t look away. The acting was awful, so much so, I was embarrassed the show was Canadian. Seriously. We all know the kind of poor quality show…. like in one scene when the dog jumps from a moving car and you can tell the real dog was replaced by a stuffed toy that was thrown by someone because you see a glimpse of a person’s arm, and it wasn’t even the same kind of dog. That’s quality tv, I tell ya. (of course, I’d rather a toy being tossed out than someone pushing a real dog, but still.)


The premise was a homeless German Shepherd dog that wandered around from town to town encountering people to help. One episode was where the dog helped an innocent man wrongly accused of murder. Talk about nail-biting CSI material or what. Another riveting episode was when he helped protect an elderly prospector from greedy land-grabbers. Wowsers. Not to mention the compelling episode when the dog helped a young boy prove to his mother that you don’t have to play a rough sport like hockey to have courage. Like holy cow, and to think that there was a chance we could have gone through our entire lives when a story like that may not have been told.

At the end of each episode the dog would walk away – much to the bewilderment and heartache of his new friends – and go to his next adventure.

As a small kid when it was on, I’ve been told that I used to cry at the theme song because the dog had no home. I was baffled as to where he would have slept, where did he go when he was cold, who fed him food and treats, what if he was thirsty??? Didn’t anyone love the dog??? I was a softy. Still am.When I saw it a few weeks ago, I hate to admit that there I was, 30-some years old sitting on the sofa and getting misty eyed when the theme song music started. The images coupled with the music would move me to tears every time. And evidently still does. (sniff sniff)

On a (somewhat) brighter/darker side (depending on how you look at it), while Winston may have gone, I’ve just now noticed that the crumb of english muffin I dropped earlier this morning and was too lazy to pick up has disappeared. I’m thinking I might have a new many-legged workspace roommate. I really hope (for their sake) it’s not the family of ants I evicted from my office last spring for stealing my stuff.

The ants I had last summer were just like this little brat… stealing jelly beans from my desk.

It was about to get really ugly. Like this…

Don’t make me obliterate you with one finger. (yuck…like THAT would happen… I’d use my shoe.)

Soooo… it appears my beloved Winston has moved on. How sad. Farewell dear Winston.

I guess on that note… “Maybe tomorrow, [he’ll] want to settle down… until tomorrow, [he’ll] just keep moving on….”



Egg on my face (uhhh… literally)

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There are just some days when I don’t know why I even get out of bed. I think I could have been Garfield in another life, cuz this is me Monday to Friday…


I’ve been going to the same fast food drive thru for a couple of years now. I love the staff who greet me each morning as I roll through for my morning green tea. Truth be known, they love me too, probably because I’m the perfect customer with exceptional drive thru etiquette. Miss Manners would be proud.

Wow! I had no idea there was even a book about this, mainly because it’s not chocolate, traveling or about me (thanks Google Images!) Note: I have excellent manners in situations where I’m buying something… like tea, clothes, vacations… but not necessarily so in some other social situations. Just sayin’.

That’s right, each morning when I get to the speaker, I already know what I’m getting (even on mornings when I get more than my green tea). I don’t just sit there for several minutes staring at the big board pondering what to get, no sir, I know when I leave my driveway what I’m getting. Plus, when I get to the payment window I have my money counted and ready to go. I’m not one of those annoying people who sit and sift through their wallets, pockets, purses, or car change drawers looking for the money to pay while holding up everyone behind them. And my manners when ordering are impeccable.  “Good morning, may I please have a large green tea – black- and an english muffin toasted with butter?” And when I pull up to pay and get my stuff, I greet them with an almost nauseating (but honest) cheerful attitude each and every day. Yep, they love me. And even mornings when I’m full of piss and vinegar and don’t want to be going to work, I am happy to see my little drive thru people and it makes the morning worthwhile.

In fact, many mornings, I often get my tea for free. They. Love. Me. Well, sometimes it seems that it’s one employee more so than the others that love me. He’s the tall glass of hot chocolate who I assumed was a ‘kid’.. you know… maybe 20 or 21, turns out he’s 30 and I’m soon discovering that anyone younger than me is someone I refer to as a “kid”. God I’m old. He tells me that whenever he’s working I don’t have to pay for my tea. Awwww… how sweet. The way I see it, I’m taking him up on the offer because hey, there aren’t many perks in this world anymore and this place can afford to give me free tea… thank-you-very-much.

Sooooo, yesterday, my better half had the day off and sent me to work with a homemade toasted egg sandwich with cheese. Seeing I was running slightly late, I opted to eat it on my way to work. (I’m sure you see where this is going…)

It was a delicious fried egg sandwich. Like, unreal. So good I wished I had another one.

So, as I rolled through the drive thru, I see the tall glass of hot chocolate and notice he’s acting somewhat different. My tea was free, but he’s not looking at me and he’s nodding his head like he’s in a hurry and can’t wait until I drive away. Weird. I pulled away wondering if perhaps he was nodding to me because there was someone talking to him on his headset.

I was wrong.

Or so I think.

I got all the way to work and realized as I did my final makeup check before getting out of the car that oh my god – I had a small piece of egg stuck just above my lip.

I was like….


No wonder he could barely look at me. I shuddered as I reflected back to every facial expression, smile and word I said to the drive thru people – all the while having egg on my face. That explains why the girl who handed me my tea kinda giggled when I took it from her.  She was probably watching the little egg piece wiggle with every thing I said. “Nice morning, isn’t it… oh, thanks so much… have a great day!”  All the while she was snickering to herself. Grrrreaaaat.

Here is my personal version of the egg on my face while sitting in my car at the drive thru. (note: this drawing is not accurate since my hair has significantly more body in this picture than in person, the egg is enlarged to show detail, and my car does in fact have seats.)

Ughhhhh… I wanted to go crawl somewhere.. like back to bed, or in a hole, or under the car. Could have been worse, my shirt could have been wide open. Oh wait, that happened last month when I was walking around at Second Cup. (That whole saga can be read here.)

I figure it will be the end of my free tea privileges. Surely having breakfast on one’s face eliminates them from the free tea program. I’m thinking that getting tea is like driving… it’s a privilege, not a right and clearly, I must’ve broken some laws or at the very least lost many demerit points for this whole scene.

The moral of the story is “check your face BEFORE greeting any member of society, not AFTER.”

I guess I have to go find a bunch of change so I have the right amount for tomorrow’s tea…. I’m guessing I’ll be paying from here on out.


Admit it, it’s a purse.

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I like men. Actually, I love them. But in saying that, I like manly men. Rugged ones. Ones who get their hands dirty. Ones who know how to use a wrench, can do yard work, and can look dead sexy having a little dirt on their face. I don’t like when men have had manicures, get facials, or can identify any items at a cosmetic counter.

Gerard Butler… definite manly man.

As a result, the one thing that still makes me chuckle every time I’ve been to Europe is the number of men carrying purses. Yessss, they are purses. Call them what you want… carryalls, bags, satchels, whatever. They’re purses, okay? PURSES. Of the many men I’ve seen with them, not one of them looked manly even though I honestly think they were trying. And what was even funnier was the number of men giving it their best shot to act masculine even though they were toting a purse. Seeing a man with hearty tattoos, bulging muscles in a shirt that is two sizes too small gently flip through the contents of his purse looking for something nearly sends me into full belly laughs. Do any of these men necessarily care if they look manly? Probably not. But I care.  It hurts me to see a man look, well, dainty. Sorry, but it’s true.

It seemed to be a phenomenon on my recent Mediterranean cruise with my better half a few weeks ago. It was interesting to note not just how many men carried them, but how many men had more than one. I don’t mean, more than one at a time, but owned more than one. It was to the point where they were actually matching their purse to their outfit. If they were wearing yellow skinny jeans (this is a whole other story), they had a yellow purse. Fire engine red jeans, then a corresponding purse to match.

Excuse me sir, I love your purse.

I guess the plus side to dating a man who wears a purse is that you can borrow it whenever you want.

My theory is, if you are carrying something that isn’t a shopping bag, a briefcase or a backpack, then it’s a purse.

Suuuure, they might be “in style” right now, but so were parachute pants at one time (although they may be coming back which is beyond frightening), and they weren’t attractive either.  So there.

No one should be wearing these pants unless you’re in a Broadway revival of “Aladdin” and playing the Genie.

I’m just saying that man purses don’t exactly ooze masculinity. Unless you are Indiana Jones. He had to carry a man purse because a backpack would have been cumbersome and reduced the chances for his shirt to be open and would have made it nearly impossible for him to narrowly make it under those vertical sliding doors. Indy was a manly man. If you are not running through a jungle, a desert, or an ancient temple either chasing or being chased, then you don’t need a purse. Running through a crowded street in London, Paris, or Rome trying to catch a cab does not constitute needing a purse either.

I’d hold his purse anytime….

Now, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with having one, I just find it funny looking, because no matter how you carry it, you aren’t emitting any testosterone while you are wearing it. You can’t make a purse any more manly than you can a tube of lipstick.

My boyfriend couldn’t help but shake his head at all the men wearing purses (he’s a manly man and found these “bags” feminine, as did I). He didn’t want to know what they carried in them. But as for me, I couldn’t help but wonder what on earth they even had in their purses… a wallet, and then what? A comb? Lotion? Lipbalm? Nail file? Gum? Mirror? Maps? hat was in there???

My man wouldn’t even put Chapstick on if his life depended on it. He says it’s only one shade away from being lipstick and well, then you have a whole other issue at hand. So there you go. No man purse for him, which might be too bad because sometimes I’d like a break from mine and I could have put my stuff in his purse for a while. Oh well!


A homicide (of sorts) at our house.


I arrived home yesterday with the house all in a flurry. There was a police car out front (my better half’s vehicle, that is) and I was informed immediately upon coming into the kitchen that there’d been a homicide. My better half was fully engrossed in the investigation, going over the actual scene of the crime, piecing together what bits he could to determine how and why this grotesque crime was perpetrated, and ultimately, why a young life was snatched away. Sadly, it was true. Sylvia’s life had been taken alright… and way too soon. They say (whoever “they” are is yet to be determined) that a vast majority of victims of a homicide are known to their killer. And the scene unfolding at our house would prove that statement to be true. The main suspect was none other than “Nanna”.

Yes, Nanna. Loving grandmother by day, calculating villain by supper.

From what I gleaned from the police reports Nanna claims that she had gone outside to smoke one of her “cancer sticks”. Whilst walking to her spot to sit down, she accidentally knocked over one of Amy’s plastic garden buckets. She said that it was with her next step that she heard a “crunch” sound and discovered in horror that she’d crushed Sylvia the snail to death. Poor Sylvia never had a chance. Nanna claims that she lifted up her foot and saw that Sylvia was now stuck to the bottom of her slipper. She said she was overcome with fear, guilt and (understandably) dry heaves at the horrific sight and called police right away.

Mind you, the one who was completely distraught over this was Amy, my 6 year old step-daughter. She slowly, and gloomily emerged from the basement, toting a piece of paper on which she’d drawn a picture on each side. One side contained a picture of the victim and herself before the grisly murder, and on the other side a picture of her very sad self at the what-appeared-to-be burial site. It was very detailed and accurate, as there in the picture was Sylvia (albeit, smiling), in her burial plot.

I’ve never met Sylvia and truth be known, I’ve never even heard of her until her untimely death. I’m not even sure how Sylvia came to live/reside/die at our house. From the description I got of her, I’m guessing she looks like this…

This would pretty much be exactly what a forensic artist would draw up based on Amy’s description of Sylvia. (the blush, hat and pearl necklace were added upon request of the victim’s family.)

It was indeed a very sad evening at our house as we each sat around and reminisced about how great Sylvia’s life had been. (You have no idea how hard it is to do this based on a slimy creature you’ve never met. Had I met her, well then, I could have talked for hours. But I had nothing.)

Nanna being taken away for questioning… (2nd degree murder perhaps?)

I guess it could have been worse. Say for example, if Sylvia and her family ended up like this…

Appetizers anyone?

Just so you know, we’ve decided to drop the charges against Nanna (negligence causing death). And if anyone would like to attend, we will be holding a service for Sylvia this weekend. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to the Save the Snails Foundation whose sole purpose is in protecting snails from such horrific and violent crimes.

Rest in peace Sylvia, wish I had have tasted  KNOWN, you.