My dog ate my snow shoe and other digestible thoughts.

Dogs, you can’t live with them; you can’t live without them.

Oh, that’s men, but my husband has never eaten or attempted to eat my snow shoes.

Wrong picture. That’s a deer, a doe, a female deer.

My dogs, however, (I have two of them) love to chomp on leather, or cotton/polyester products with a foam center, kind of like an Oreo. I’m talking about pillows of any breed.

 

The main suspect and perpetrator is Jenny, a Sato dog, who once lived on the streets of Puerto Rico eating garbage and anything else that helped her to survive. Now garbage is just an hors’devour.

Jenny stares at an open food compactor, as if it were a buffet table. Garbage cans are snack trays. She gives a whole new meaning to the expression “dumpster diving.”

I once caught her lying on a bed eating tissues from the Kleenex box she grabbed from the nightstand. Maybe tissues taste like cotton candy or chicken.

Anything of questionable taste, other than clothing, is immediately put into the chicken column, although no one has ever accused chicken of tasting like anything questionable unless it involves my cooking. And my husband has used some choice words to describe my culinary expertise, before consumption (BC), while still in the baking dish set on the counter in a Good Housekeeping photo op moment. I wish! And after digestion (AD), when said chicken carcass and husband carcass end up in the can.

But I’ve wandered off topic again and find myself slowly edging back to the point . . . that my dog ate my snow shoe, which is now in a flip-flop state, meaning that when lifting the shoe, most of the heel remains on the floor. Not good for icy conditions or walking in general.

In the case of another pair of snow shoes I own, one of the shoes is now a widow since her better half has bitten the dust, or more aptly, been bitten. We have lots of widow and widower shoes in the hall closet. They lie in mourning, saddened by the untimely deaths of their shoe spouses. One day I will discard the widowed shoes, but right now I honor the memory of the poor departed soles. They mate for life, you know.

Do you have any widowed shoes?
If so, what caused their untimely demise?

WTF Friday: Shopping Center Considers Women Special Needs Drivers.

Image by dklimke via Flickr



Car park offers wider spaces, signs to help women drivers in need | News.com.au
 
 

Oh men and their need to malign women drivers. Are we really auto dysfunctional or just preoccupied with stuff, like screaming kids and husbands yelling at us to “hurry up and park the damn thing?”

Just as men suffer from “stopping for directions disorder,” women have spatial relation issues when it comes to in-laws and parking spaces. Maybe not in-laws, per say, although having a mother-in-law riding shot gun, just two-feet away, complaining about how you’re raising her grand kids like feral children, would not be conducive to a successful parking experience.


Well, the Wanxiang Tiancheng shopping centre in Hebei province’ has devised a way to improve that parking experience.

A SHOPPING centre in China has opened a car park that offers women drivers bigger-than-normal parking spaces to accommodate what it sees as their special needs.

I resent the name calling, referring to women as special needs drivers. I admit that I’m a crappy parker and that the parking lines seem to move with the car, but I get the sense that there’s a bit of chauvinism going on here. Special needs drivers, indeed.

Wang Zheng, an official at the Wanxiang Tiancheng shopping centre in Hebei province’s Shijiazhuang city, told AFP the women-only parking lot aimed to address women’s “strong sense of colour and different sense of distance”.

“Different sense of distance.” You mean like sticking your head up your ass, while writing a memo about adjusting the parameters of parking spaces in order to accommodate special needs women drivers. Geez! And what was all that about a “strong sense of colour?” You won’t find it at the News.com.au link. You have to jump over to the BBC News website to find out more details on this incredibly important topic.

The women-only car park in Shijiazhuang city is also painted in pink and light purple to appeal to female tastes.

Okay. I do like pink and light purple but think it might be a tad bit distracting to admire pretty colors, while parking at the same time. Don’t get me wrong. Women are great multi-taskers. We can smack the kid in the back seat; run a red light, while also making dinner reservations. But when we see pretty colors, we lose our train of thought, as soon as the dopamine in our brains kicks in.

At least that’s what Wang Scheng would have you believe. The BBC article provides details on how Wang Scheng  intends to condition women drivers to respond like rats behind the wheel.

The Wanxiang-Tiancheng shopping centre had also “installed signs and security monitoring equipment that corresponded more to women’s needs”, he said.

The Global Times website says female parking attendants have been trained to help guide women drivers into their parking spaces. The bays also have extra lighting.

Ohhhhhh! Pretty lights, too. I bet those women parkers in China will never make it into the store. In my opinion, the light and color combo is an accident waiting to happen.

Let’s face it. Maybe we’re better suited at being barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen while parking baking dishes in ovens. Hence, my previous post on a study concerning women’s parking habits. Women better at parallel parking baking dishes in ovens than cars on streets.

Haven’t any of these reporters heard about global warming or the high unemployment rate? There is important news out there, somewhere. Go find it! For God’s sake.

What say you on pink and purple parking spaces with all those purdy lights – parking salvation or parking hell?

This has been another edition of
http://unscriptedlife.com
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Barber Shop Stories: Roots of Our Fathers.

Image via Wikipedia

CANDY COMBATANTS AND BEER BOMBARDIERS.

I get my hair cut at a local unisex barber shop in town where my husband and son also get their hair cut. On this particular day, my husband had an appointment before me and watched a DVD of Venice, Italy, while locks of his hair fell to their death, cut down in the prime of life.

As I waited, I chatted with a gentlemen seated to my right on the bench we shared. The affable fellow, named Carl, was a veteran of the Korean war and harbinger of great anecdotes from his tour there.

I discovered this after making an innocuous remark about the frigid temperatures outside, which is usually followed with an, “I hate the cold, too,” or some other vacuous tripe.

This time my comment elicited the response, “Not as cold as Korea.”


This piqued my interest, of course, since I thought Korea was hot. I know. We Americans are so directionally dysfunctional. Duh! Korea has winter, too, which brings me back to my lame response of, “It’s cold in Korea?”

“Damn cold,” said Carl. “Back, during the Korean war, I used to drive a truck with a cargo of beer.” 

“Beer?” I gasped, while raising my eyebrows. That can’t be a good thing, I thought, giving alcoholic beverages to the troops. We’re not talking about dance troupes or Shakespearean troupes. We’re talking about machine gun slinging, grenade flinging, weapon-bearing troops, with swords stuck at the end of rifles. Hence the redundant echoing of the word, “Beer?”

To which Carl nodded and said, “Yes, beer,” then continued. “I used to drive truck loads of beer to the front line on a dangerous road that ran through enemy territory. On one such beer run, on a day the temperature fell well below zero, suddenly I heard the sound, pop, pop, pop. Christ. I thought. I’m under attack, taking in enemy fire from both sides of the road. So, I radioed the base for help. Minutes later, a U.S. plane swooped in and battered the perimeter of the roads with rounds of artillery.”

Unbeknown to Carl, another evil was brewing around him.

“They saved my ass,” said Carl. “Man, I was so relieved to make it out of there in one piece. As soon as I arrived to the front line, I opened the back of the truck to unload the cargo and saw hundreds of  bottles of beer (a hundred bottles of beer) burst open, glass scattered everywhere. It was so cold the bottles exploded while I was on the road.”

Get it! Carl wasn’t under attack. His cargo of beer burst open from the cold, likely costing American taxpayers thousands of dollars that day by radioing for help for protection from the bottle blasting bombardiers.

It seems that during the Korean war, Schlitz and Reingold regularly supplied beer to the troops, a fact I found quite disturbing and led to the question, “Carl, do you think that giving beer to the troops was such a good idea? I mean. Do you think it might have contributed to the early withdrawal of U.S. troops?”

Carl just hunched his shoulders and shook his head.

Come on. Really! Supplying beer to the troops. Whose bright idea was that, serving alcohol to 18 and 22 year old’s on the front line? The heavy breathers at Schlitz and Reingold probably thought it would be great publicity, or something.

Another interesting Carl story that you won’t find in the history books, involved candy, specifically, chocolate from the manufacturers of Hershey candy bars.

Hershey was another huge supplier of goods, or no goods, to the troops. Yep. They gave our boys in Korea, a major sugar rush, at the same time they underwent an adrenaline rush. The Corporate office shipped thousand of Hershey bars to Korea to give our troops in harms way chocolate bars containing trace amounts of caffeine and 24 grams of sugar, what many considered to be a nutritious snack at the time.

The corporate geniuses at Hershey’s were also unaware of their other contribution to the Korean war effort, beside a quick trigger finger. After the American troops were ordered to withdraw from Seoul and subsequently left the region, the Chinese moved in, confiscated 1000 Hershey candy bars (apparently no beer remained), and then handed them out to the Korean children.

Now, this may sound like an act of benevolence and a sweet end to a horrific story, however, on life’s road of ironic twists and cul-de-sacs, that was not the end to be. Instead of ingesting the tasty snack, the innocent children took the Hershey candy bars bestowed upon them and poured gasoline over those 1000 candy bars, using them as kindling, and then extinguished the remnants of the American occupation in Seoul, Korea in a blaze of fire.

You’ll never hear about that in an American History class. I can only shudder at the thousand other war tales left untold.

Have you heard any bizarre historical anecdotes or had any experiences of your own?

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How blogging saved my mind but not my 401K.

Cover of "Titanic (Three-Disc Special Col...Cover via Amazon



REPLACING THE DECK CHAIRS. 

After being jobless for almost a year, tomorrow I will once again be jobfull. A culture shock waiting to happen due to my previous limited conversational choices, which included the characters in my head and virtual blogging friends. I know you’re all real!


Spare us the sentimental crap and continue detoxing your brain.

When I lost my job, I also lost my self-esteem in addition to a steady paycheck, excluding the unemployment checks that paid for Macaroni and Cheese and ketchup, the affordable vegetable alternative.

Blogging saved my brain from frying like an egg sputtering in bacon grease. Remember, a mind is a terrible thing to waste unless you’re Hannibal Lecter. Then you eat every last bite.


I eventually found my self-esteem on an obscure shelf in the family room in my house where I also found my car keys. Now I can drive again with confidence. Parking is another story, as mentioned in an earlier post called Women better at parallel parking baking dishes in ovens than cars on streets. I know. Shameless self-promotion, but it is relevant. Sort of.

For months, I searched the hallowed halls of my head and house for my shiny ego that had ejected from my brain. It took five months to notice it radiating from the shelf, slightly tilted right against the Titanic DVD. No wonder I kept rearranging the deck chairs, while the birds evacuating the feeder left good luck droppings on my head. Thank you, birds. Not! Lice ridden rats with wings. Oh, that’s right. Those are pigeons. These birds are just lice ridden and shit a lot.

As I lifted my ego from the shelf, it looked up at me and smiled. Maybe the Lysol fumes fogged my head. We embraced, my ego and me, and then I promptly slipped it back into my brain. It was easy, like replacing a lithium battery. I could breathe again, as soon as I passed through the Lysol cloud that hung above the kitchen compactor. Compactors transform trash into manageable messes. Don’t you know?

The darkness finally went away. Oh, that was night. I could get on with my life, take showers, and send out resumes in confidence, knowing that Job seekers now outnumber openings six to one.

Hearing those numbers was equivalent to having a lobotomy.

Six months after finding my footing – it was icy outside and the wood floors slippery inside – I found a job, which brings us back to Doe, not Doh!

Stop it!

It brings us back to the beginning of this abomination. I’ve got to wrap this up before y’all go away. They say that people nowadays have a really short attention . . .   Sorry.  I got distracted by my own bullshit.

Tomorrow, I begin a new day with the blare of my alarm clock set to heart attack mode and then segue into lunch that will now last an hour instead of an afternoon. And Oh? Did I mention that I will be paid with real money and not Entrecard credits?

Time will now be a valuable commodity. When you have too much time, its worth becomes devalued. However, the blog does not stop here. I intend to keep writing the wrongs and posting regularly, as long as I keep eating my blogger bran and don’t fall asleep in my Macaroni and Cheese still left over from the case that sits shuddering in the dark on the evil kitchen shelf. I wrote about scary food, too. You probably remember Cook’s Crypt. How could you not? I keep dragging that one out of the cellar.

From the bottom of the likely clogged arteries of my heart, I thank you all for reading my maniacal ramblings. This is not good-bye. This is good God. How am I going to get up at 6 a.m.?

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Dog Park Tales: A Day in Poo Land.

Attention Dog Guardians / DogsImage by dullhunk via Flickr

Warning:  Humans suffering from highbrow humor disorder, irritable wit syndrome, or sensitivity to john jokes (not hookers or brother-in-laws) should not read past this line.

Just remember. You were warned!

BEFORE DOG CRAP BECOMES SHOE SPLAT.

A trip to the local dog park, where free-range canines run in 6-packs, 12-packs, 18-packs or more, brings a flush of pride to a dog owner’s cheek and a smush of poo beneath the shoe.

I really stepped in that one! Scraping bottom of shoe against large rock.

For the dog owner, finding a canine dropping often becomes a game of “which crap is mine?” as there is a variety to choose from — the same challenge we face everyday at the grocery store, although with processed food, not food already processed.

Unless a dog owner has an intimate knowledge of what descends from his dog’s behind, it can be a daunting task to find the remains of fido’s breakfast. What is a dog owner to do? Put the poo bag on his hand and turn it into a poo puppet? No! Just approach Area Number 2 with caution and pick up any stool. During the winter, any poo will do. Those are the hard-facts on frozen feces. To learn more, visit www.crapogenics.org.

While the dog days of summer produces countless hurls, uh, er hurtles, as a hot steaming pile of shit is a slick wily creature that can change appearances at any given moment in order to give the poo hunter the slip. When conducting summer stool reconnaissance, it is best to choose the mutt muffin from the dog with a hi-fiber diet, unless you happened to arrive at the park on Taco day, then it is highly recommended that you put pebbles in your poo bag when no one is looking.

Do you pick up any poo or put pebbles in your poo bag?
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Sarah Palin Magazine: Straight from the moose’s mouth to your bleeding ears.

Camp Buehring, Kuwait - Alaska Governor Sarah ...Image via Wikipedia







Oprah she ain’t!

Sarah Palin Magazine – Coming soon to a newsstand near you. (They still have those?) The only magazine with run on sentences and fictionalized accounts of the facts.

“The genesis of it was really simple,” said Steve LeGrice, the publisher and editor of Imagine That. “We’re up here in New York, and there was clearly this huge enthusiasm for Sarah Palin . . .

He must be confusing New York with Russia. She can see it from her house, you know.

” . . . and at the same time all the people in the media world were sitting around scratching their heads” about how people could support her.”

Scratching their heads because of the lice they contracted from the free hats she may have been handing out. The hats, that once belonged to a minion of moose she shot with an AK-47 from a helicopter, were immediately recycled and placed into the promotional drawer upon extermination of the hosts. She used Dick Cheney on the ground as back up, instructing him to aim his rifle in the opposite direction, thus ensuring a direct hit.

“What we decided to do is put out a magazine all in her own words,” he said — a magazine “without any opinion or anything added in.”

Wink. Wink. Nod. Nod.

The Palin issue contains what LeGrice said are family pictures of Palin not previously published by a magazine — including her as a child with her siblings and a dead bear bleeding over a stump; picking through shot white birds; holding a cardboard box of fish freshly caught at an ice hole; and with moose antlers still attached to a fragment of bloody skull.

Charming. Sounds like one of my family pictures minus the dead bear bleeding over a stump and other sordid animal carnage.

 “I want people to know what I stand for and judge me on that … read in my own words who I am. Don’t believe the things that are made up,” the magazine quotes Palin as saying.

It was horrible how CBS doctored the footage of the Katie Couric/Sarah Palin interview to make Sarah look like an idiot. That’s right! They didn’t have to touch a thing, thus saving CBS the need to incur the extra expense. Palin really was an idiot and couldn’t name one newspaper she read. I guess she had better luck with magazines, which is a great reason to launch one.

So, walk don’t run to your nearest newsstand (I swear the last one I saw was on the corner of 42nd and Park) or convenience store to get your copy of Sarah Palin Magazine, retailing at $8.99, around the same price she paid for building her Wasilla house.

Will you buy a copy of Sarah Palin magazine to
A.  read?
B.  cover the bottom of your bird cage?
C.  display in magazine racks at abortion doctors’ offices?
D.  bonk right wing extremists over the head every time they say something offensive?
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