Just For Fun
Several years ago local cartoonist Al McKerracher did this sketch using information I had given him describing my home office/store room. Things have not changed much since then except that I am now in an even smaller space.
There are some posts in the Just in Passing section of my Blog which really would have been more appropriately placed on this page. I shall leave them alone, but a lot of the nonsensical, amusing or exasperating things that happen in life will find their way to this page. Why not?
Pull up a pile of debris and make yourself comfy at Chez Wendy. Hopefully you will be amused and entertained.
There are some posts in the Just in Passing section of my Blog which really would have been more appropriately placed on this page. I shall leave them alone, but a lot of the nonsensical, amusing or exasperating things that happen in life will find their way to this page. Why not?
Pull up a pile of debris and make yourself comfy at Chez Wendy. Hopefully you will be amused and entertained.
Giant Slide at the Fair
I am sure you have spotted the bumper sticker which reads “If I had known grandchildren were this much fun I’d have had them first”. Never mind biological impossibilities, if you are a grand parent you can relate.
When our first grandchild was about 2 and a half I took him to our Fall Fair. The music, the sound effects on the rides, the barkers in each game booth competing for your attention, candy floss and other yummy smells, flashing lights and of course the bees combine to create an almost intoxicating atmosphere that quickly overloads the senses of the uninitiated. Scotty was enchanted.
I wanted to cover the entire midway, seeing everything, talking to friends and relatives in chance encounters, soaking up the ambiance. Scotty and I happened upon one of those giant slides, the kind that travel on or are part of a flatbed trailer with hydraulics that hoist one end high into the air. He was adamant that this looked like great fun. It really didn’t appeal to me at all but science has discovered that becoming a grand parent alters the brain’s chemistry and sets up a certain type of damage from which one never completely recovers.
Armed with our rectangle of burlap we began the ascent. I found myself hoping there was an oxygen tank at the top and suspected we may have nose bleeds on the way down. There is less air pressure at such elevations. Coming down too quickly can cause delirium tremens; the bends. Air pressure was to be the least of my worries.
I have had three kids, I was middle aged, and we had consumed our share of liquids in our travels down the midway. I figured I could hold it. Our next stop was to be the rest room anyway.
Positioning myself on the burlap, having mild misgivings about my sanity, I got Scotty situated on my lap and wrapped both arms protectively around him. I prayed for a safe landing, drew in a deep breath and shoved off.
Those slides do not go straight down. There are a series of level steps designed, I’m certain, to prevent excessive acceleration. They failed to accomplish that for us. We shot right off of the top one and for a few brief seconds we were airborne.
The human mind has the ability to create a sensation of slow motion so that in threatening situations it seems to have time to consider alternative actions and make life saving decisions. I experienced this in mid-flight. I rapidly calculated that when we hit the slide again, given our momentum, 40 pounds of toddler was going to land squarely on my bladder. While the outcome was clear, a way of escape eluded me. Tossing Scotty over the side was never considered and I braced for impact and gave thanks that I had worn dark clothing.
Wet burlap has interesting properties. It really doesn’t slide well down nylon or fiberglass or whatever on earth we were adhering to. Quizzical stares greeted us as I struggled to get us all the way to the bottom. The understanding attendant, trying his best to stifle his laughter, just nodded as I handed him his soggy burlap and suggested he not use it again.
Scotty was excited and wanted to go again. I am sure he may have, eventually, at some other Fall Fair.
When our first grandchild was about 2 and a half I took him to our Fall Fair. The music, the sound effects on the rides, the barkers in each game booth competing for your attention, candy floss and other yummy smells, flashing lights and of course the bees combine to create an almost intoxicating atmosphere that quickly overloads the senses of the uninitiated. Scotty was enchanted.
I wanted to cover the entire midway, seeing everything, talking to friends and relatives in chance encounters, soaking up the ambiance. Scotty and I happened upon one of those giant slides, the kind that travel on or are part of a flatbed trailer with hydraulics that hoist one end high into the air. He was adamant that this looked like great fun. It really didn’t appeal to me at all but science has discovered that becoming a grand parent alters the brain’s chemistry and sets up a certain type of damage from which one never completely recovers.
Armed with our rectangle of burlap we began the ascent. I found myself hoping there was an oxygen tank at the top and suspected we may have nose bleeds on the way down. There is less air pressure at such elevations. Coming down too quickly can cause delirium tremens; the bends. Air pressure was to be the least of my worries.
I have had three kids, I was middle aged, and we had consumed our share of liquids in our travels down the midway. I figured I could hold it. Our next stop was to be the rest room anyway.
Positioning myself on the burlap, having mild misgivings about my sanity, I got Scotty situated on my lap and wrapped both arms protectively around him. I prayed for a safe landing, drew in a deep breath and shoved off.
Those slides do not go straight down. There are a series of level steps designed, I’m certain, to prevent excessive acceleration. They failed to accomplish that for us. We shot right off of the top one and for a few brief seconds we were airborne.
The human mind has the ability to create a sensation of slow motion so that in threatening situations it seems to have time to consider alternative actions and make life saving decisions. I experienced this in mid-flight. I rapidly calculated that when we hit the slide again, given our momentum, 40 pounds of toddler was going to land squarely on my bladder. While the outcome was clear, a way of escape eluded me. Tossing Scotty over the side was never considered and I braced for impact and gave thanks that I had worn dark clothing.
Wet burlap has interesting properties. It really doesn’t slide well down nylon or fiberglass or whatever on earth we were adhering to. Quizzical stares greeted us as I struggled to get us all the way to the bottom. The understanding attendant, trying his best to stifle his laughter, just nodded as I handed him his soggy burlap and suggested he not use it again.
Scotty was excited and wanted to go again. I am sure he may have, eventually, at some other Fall Fair.
Aunt Wendy and The Gang
(Skip this one if you have a touchy tummy)
I live in Ontario and used to fly to Alberta every year or two for a vacation with my sister Dottie and her family. On our way to Victoria one year we stopped for one rather memorable supper. That was the year I developed a fondness for black olives, much to nephew Jordan’s disappointment. On other trips he had been the eager recipient of my black olives and he often encouraged me to order a Greek salad. Having made it clear that I would be capable of consuming my own olives this time, my attention was captured by my niece Tammy, who announced that she required a visit to the little girls’ room.
My long-suffering sister Dottie appeared to be at the end of her tether so I volunteered to escort Tammy to the facilities, since I felt somewhat inclined to use them myself.
Tammy was an absolutely beautiful child. A head-turner. She drew particular attention from Oriental tourists because of her waist-length mane of corn silk hair. A vision to behold, Tammy also possessed a nature and personality that set her apart from her peers.
Knowing better than to let this extraordinary child out of my sight for a heartbeat, I insisted that we jointly occupy a stall in the washroom. Having assured me that her need was urgent, she took her turn first, and proceeded at length to tell me interesting facts and anecdotes for some time before there was any evidence whatsoever of this urgent need.
Her turn completed, I took great pains to explain that under no circumstances was she to open the door until both of us were properly reassembled and fit to be seen in public. I could think of nothing else that needed to be said, the territory was covered.
With a look that rattled my complacency, Tammy suddenly dropped to her knees and stuck her head under the divider, greeting the startled occupant of the adjoining stall with a Gatling gun string of verbiage and nobody’s business types of questions before I could grab her and pull her back across the border and up to her feet.
I quickly concluded that I did not want to stand at the counter looking into the mirror at this woman; I carefully took fastidious and leisurely care to regain my composure, waiting for her to exit the room before emerging.
Tammy skipped cheerfully and triumphantly back to our table in the dining room, oblivious to any and all stares, while I gave silent thanks that this was a dimly lit restaurant with sufficient ambiance to obscure the glares coming at us from across the room.
On the day we were scheduled to begin the homeward journey, Tammy was not in the mood to eat breakfast. A high strung, intelligent and head strong child, Tammy was destined to grow into a completely responsible and very even keel adult, but there were no signs of it at the time. (She is now an outstanding Emergency Room Nurse. Who knew?)
Aboard the ferry for the trip back to the mainland Tammy spotted Nanaimo Bars in the onboard cafeteria. An award winning scene maker, she launched into one of her finest performances, and my harried sister Dottie just wanted to silence the disturbance as quickly as possibly. Hence, Tammy got Nanaimo bars for breakfast. An inevitable sequence of events was thus set in motion, and while I accurately predicted the outcome I elected to keep it to myself. Dottie was stressed enough.
When we got into the car to drive down the off ramp there was a cold drizzle in the air. We kept the windows closed, and the air was getting a little close. Between that and the fact that Tammy was sitting in the middle in the back seat, the next stage of the adventure was lining up predictably. I was on her left, behind my brother-in-law Daryl, and my nephew Jordan was to Tammy’s right, behind Dottie.
We got a little turned around, and in an effort to find our way back on track made a series of quick turns. The effect was reminiscent of a Tilt’a’whirl. Listening to Dottie and Daryl attempting to discuss directions and decide who lead whom astray, and to Jordan who was grumbling about first one thing and then another, I sat in silence, my peripheral vision and attention riveted on a steadily “greening” Tammy.
At the precise moment when I knew upchucking was a nanosecond away, I grabbed Tammy’s shoulders and turned her towards Jordan. If there is an insanity defense for aunts I have to plead having a hair trigger gag reflex and a weak stomach.
Tammy leaned back, her eyes rolling up like unstable window shades, almost in a stupor, and I grabbed her shoulders and turned her towards her brother. Jordan broke the sound barrier when Tammy presented him with her breakfast, and both Dottie and Daryl took their eyes off the road. I glanced, as much as I dared, in the direction of the offence, and said, “Oh, my, look at that.”
Pandemonium ensued. Finding the right road became secondary to finding a service station, and a cacophony of fault finding reverberated off of every fogged up window. As we pulled into the first station that popped up, Jordan’s earlier grumblings paled when compared to the pitch he was able to reach when really steamed.
Watching Daryl hose down Jordan’s coat didn’t really fill me with guilt because I was rationalizing that, had I not done it, I would have been plastered and would have contributed my own breakfast to display.
Tammy recovered, Jordan grew up relatively unscathed, Dottie and Daryl are still speaking to me… at least they were. I am not certain that I ever confessed this to them.
My long-suffering sister Dottie appeared to be at the end of her tether so I volunteered to escort Tammy to the facilities, since I felt somewhat inclined to use them myself.
Tammy was an absolutely beautiful child. A head-turner. She drew particular attention from Oriental tourists because of her waist-length mane of corn silk hair. A vision to behold, Tammy also possessed a nature and personality that set her apart from her peers.
Knowing better than to let this extraordinary child out of my sight for a heartbeat, I insisted that we jointly occupy a stall in the washroom. Having assured me that her need was urgent, she took her turn first, and proceeded at length to tell me interesting facts and anecdotes for some time before there was any evidence whatsoever of this urgent need.
Her turn completed, I took great pains to explain that under no circumstances was she to open the door until both of us were properly reassembled and fit to be seen in public. I could think of nothing else that needed to be said, the territory was covered.
With a look that rattled my complacency, Tammy suddenly dropped to her knees and stuck her head under the divider, greeting the startled occupant of the adjoining stall with a Gatling gun string of verbiage and nobody’s business types of questions before I could grab her and pull her back across the border and up to her feet.
I quickly concluded that I did not want to stand at the counter looking into the mirror at this woman; I carefully took fastidious and leisurely care to regain my composure, waiting for her to exit the room before emerging.
Tammy skipped cheerfully and triumphantly back to our table in the dining room, oblivious to any and all stares, while I gave silent thanks that this was a dimly lit restaurant with sufficient ambiance to obscure the glares coming at us from across the room.
On the day we were scheduled to begin the homeward journey, Tammy was not in the mood to eat breakfast. A high strung, intelligent and head strong child, Tammy was destined to grow into a completely responsible and very even keel adult, but there were no signs of it at the time. (She is now an outstanding Emergency Room Nurse. Who knew?)
Aboard the ferry for the trip back to the mainland Tammy spotted Nanaimo Bars in the onboard cafeteria. An award winning scene maker, she launched into one of her finest performances, and my harried sister Dottie just wanted to silence the disturbance as quickly as possibly. Hence, Tammy got Nanaimo bars for breakfast. An inevitable sequence of events was thus set in motion, and while I accurately predicted the outcome I elected to keep it to myself. Dottie was stressed enough.
When we got into the car to drive down the off ramp there was a cold drizzle in the air. We kept the windows closed, and the air was getting a little close. Between that and the fact that Tammy was sitting in the middle in the back seat, the next stage of the adventure was lining up predictably. I was on her left, behind my brother-in-law Daryl, and my nephew Jordan was to Tammy’s right, behind Dottie.
We got a little turned around, and in an effort to find our way back on track made a series of quick turns. The effect was reminiscent of a Tilt’a’whirl. Listening to Dottie and Daryl attempting to discuss directions and decide who lead whom astray, and to Jordan who was grumbling about first one thing and then another, I sat in silence, my peripheral vision and attention riveted on a steadily “greening” Tammy.
At the precise moment when I knew upchucking was a nanosecond away, I grabbed Tammy’s shoulders and turned her towards Jordan. If there is an insanity defense for aunts I have to plead having a hair trigger gag reflex and a weak stomach.
Tammy leaned back, her eyes rolling up like unstable window shades, almost in a stupor, and I grabbed her shoulders and turned her towards her brother. Jordan broke the sound barrier when Tammy presented him with her breakfast, and both Dottie and Daryl took their eyes off the road. I glanced, as much as I dared, in the direction of the offence, and said, “Oh, my, look at that.”
Pandemonium ensued. Finding the right road became secondary to finding a service station, and a cacophony of fault finding reverberated off of every fogged up window. As we pulled into the first station that popped up, Jordan’s earlier grumblings paled when compared to the pitch he was able to reach when really steamed.
Watching Daryl hose down Jordan’s coat didn’t really fill me with guilt because I was rationalizing that, had I not done it, I would have been plastered and would have contributed my own breakfast to display.
Tammy recovered, Jordan grew up relatively unscathed, Dottie and Daryl are still speaking to me… at least they were. I am not certain that I ever confessed this to them.
BAT! (Originally "Life in the Bat House")
If you have ever lived in an old farm house in a rural area you are familiar with the losing battle you do with flies, mice and bats. You master the art of having a fork in one hand while the other stealthily defends your plate from buzzing invaders.
Actually, we also had the odd weasel. One harvest season, after picking, shelling, husking and blanching for sixteen hours, I knew I couldn’t do another thing without sleep and I left bags of corn standing in the kitchen. When I came downstairs next morning the corn was strewn all over the kitchen, livingroom and den. No mouse did that. My husband’s investigative talents solved the case. Weasels were able to get into the house around the dryer vent.
I walked sleepily into the kitchen one morning and wondered how that clever little mouse had managed to hang upside down from the acoustical tiles on the ceiling. I am reasonably intelligent after a coffee, but don’t ask me any skill testing questions until noon. When it dawned on me, as the beady eyes followed my every move, that sounding a retreat was the wisest course of action, I backed out of the kitchen and woke my problem solving husband. I hid under the covers until I heard the All clear.
My daughters are typical girls. My son was a problem solving male, spittin’ image of his dad. When our oldest daughter became aware of a midnight intruder flying reconnaissance in her bedroom, she did what any brave country girl would do. She bolted downstairs, crawled under the kitchen table, and began shrieking at levels only dogs can here; or only brothers. I heard nothing.
My husband, a now-retired long haul trucker, was on the road, and our son stepped proudly into the man-of-the-house roll when the sanctuary of our rustic home was threatened. My first inkling of the impending battle was when he opened my bedroom door, turned on the ceiling light and told me to stay put.
I should tell you at this point that my husband is an avid hunter. Big game mostly, but he has a small game license for Saturday jaunts in search of ferocious ground hogs. He had skillfully taught our son all aspects of gun safety, and Spittin’ Image was about to do his dad proud.
Safely tented under the covers, burning up my oxygen at an alarming rate, I was barking instructions like a true matriarch. Able to discern the goings on only by what I was hearing began to fill me mild apprehension. OK, stark terror. My niece Tammy isn’t the only drama queen on the family tree.
My son, in the dark of the upstairs hallway, was shouting at his sister who was guarding the air space beneath the kitchen table. She gave him intelligence on the latest enemy sighting, while he asked detailed questions and told her she must be wrong, it definitely had not flown up the stairway.
A second later the lazy summer night was pierced with his blood curdling shriek as the kamikaze airman brushed passed Spittin’s shoulder. Following the culprit to a bedroom, Spittin’ said, “Mom, cover your ears!” The 22!
I sucked in all remaining tent air and got as far as, “Don’t you dare..” when I heard a resounding bang. Then silence. I held my breath. It was all I could do with it, there were no breaths left under there. I poked my sweat drenched head out from the safety of the bunker and waited.
The next thing I heard was Spittin’ saying the little rotter – what was left of it- looked very tiny and non-threatening at this point. The size of an eagle in flight, the size of ping pong ball in the palm of his hand.
Comforted by the sweet smell of manure on the still night air we all settled down for some much needed rest.
~"Long, long ago, 'Life in a Bathouse' would have been published in a mag like Canadian Living. They would have paid you about $700 twenty years ago. Erma Bombeck could not get her stuff published today if she slept with the publisher.That's the state of publishing world-wide and I hope Rupert Murdoch roasts for it. I think you should keep after your comic writing. I don't know where there is room in Rupert's empire for it. Maybe you'll have to take up hacking." Author Ian Watson http://www.iangwatsonauthor.com/index.html
Actually, we also had the odd weasel. One harvest season, after picking, shelling, husking and blanching for sixteen hours, I knew I couldn’t do another thing without sleep and I left bags of corn standing in the kitchen. When I came downstairs next morning the corn was strewn all over the kitchen, livingroom and den. No mouse did that. My husband’s investigative talents solved the case. Weasels were able to get into the house around the dryer vent.
I walked sleepily into the kitchen one morning and wondered how that clever little mouse had managed to hang upside down from the acoustical tiles on the ceiling. I am reasonably intelligent after a coffee, but don’t ask me any skill testing questions until noon. When it dawned on me, as the beady eyes followed my every move, that sounding a retreat was the wisest course of action, I backed out of the kitchen and woke my problem solving husband. I hid under the covers until I heard the All clear.
My daughters are typical girls. My son was a problem solving male, spittin’ image of his dad. When our oldest daughter became aware of a midnight intruder flying reconnaissance in her bedroom, she did what any brave country girl would do. She bolted downstairs, crawled under the kitchen table, and began shrieking at levels only dogs can here; or only brothers. I heard nothing.
My husband, a now-retired long haul trucker, was on the road, and our son stepped proudly into the man-of-the-house roll when the sanctuary of our rustic home was threatened. My first inkling of the impending battle was when he opened my bedroom door, turned on the ceiling light and told me to stay put.
I should tell you at this point that my husband is an avid hunter. Big game mostly, but he has a small game license for Saturday jaunts in search of ferocious ground hogs. He had skillfully taught our son all aspects of gun safety, and Spittin’ Image was about to do his dad proud.
Safely tented under the covers, burning up my oxygen at an alarming rate, I was barking instructions like a true matriarch. Able to discern the goings on only by what I was hearing began to fill me mild apprehension. OK, stark terror. My niece Tammy isn’t the only drama queen on the family tree.
My son, in the dark of the upstairs hallway, was shouting at his sister who was guarding the air space beneath the kitchen table. She gave him intelligence on the latest enemy sighting, while he asked detailed questions and told her she must be wrong, it definitely had not flown up the stairway.
A second later the lazy summer night was pierced with his blood curdling shriek as the kamikaze airman brushed passed Spittin’s shoulder. Following the culprit to a bedroom, Spittin’ said, “Mom, cover your ears!” The 22!
I sucked in all remaining tent air and got as far as, “Don’t you dare..” when I heard a resounding bang. Then silence. I held my breath. It was all I could do with it, there were no breaths left under there. I poked my sweat drenched head out from the safety of the bunker and waited.
The next thing I heard was Spittin’ saying the little rotter – what was left of it- looked very tiny and non-threatening at this point. The size of an eagle in flight, the size of ping pong ball in the palm of his hand.
Comforted by the sweet smell of manure on the still night air we all settled down for some much needed rest.
~"Long, long ago, 'Life in a Bathouse' would have been published in a mag like Canadian Living. They would have paid you about $700 twenty years ago. Erma Bombeck could not get her stuff published today if she slept with the publisher.That's the state of publishing world-wide and I hope Rupert Murdoch roasts for it. I think you should keep after your comic writing. I don't know where there is room in Rupert's empire for it. Maybe you'll have to take up hacking." Author Ian Watson http://www.iangwatsonauthor.com/index.html
