Tree Rage

I caught the action from the corner of my eye, a squirrel was leaping through the trees trying to take down a crow. He exuded determination. This was no ordinary squirrel, I’m sure his name was Rambo. The following pictures are a still life portrayal of what followed. I was too damn slow to get the tree leaping pictures.

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The crow floated down to the ground, looking for something fun to do. It’s such a drag to sit up in a tree all day and shriek.

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Hmmm, I see potential over there. Look at that squirrel running back and forth gathering seeds. He’s such a hoarder. Maybe I should let him know there are help groups, for that sort of problem. I could help him. I could teach him about fun.

FullSizeRender-6“Hey— nose to the grindstone squirrel” calls the crow, “Lets have a little fun?” The squirrel ignores him. “Hey workaholic, I’m talking to you. I can take over packing your seed. Why don’t you go and put your claws up for a while?”

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Rambo leaps up, and barrels across the snow, “No way you feather-faced tyrant. You’re not gonna boss me around. I have a baby on the way.” Rambo shows his sharp pointy teeth, “I’m not a meat eater but maybe I’ll try a wing!”

The crow lets out a cackle, “Maybe you should take an anger management class?” He flies up avoiding the attack, and gives Rambo a wink on the way by.

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“Over here Bucky.” taunts the crow. “Try and catch me you overgrown mouse.”

Rambo races toward him, growling like a banshee. “You lazy, branch sitting, batwing. Leave me alone. I need to work.”

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The crow warbles, “Aww, come on little fur ball, move your feet. Faster, faster owl-bait.” His black wings flap “I’m going to eat all your food, and there’s not a thing you can do about it.”

“Yeah, well you’re not chowing down now? Are you pinfeather brain?” puffs Rambo.

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“I’ll eat when I want to eat.” Preens the bird, “I’m enjoying our rendezvous. Catch me if you can.”

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“I got you now, you mealy mouthed, air-beater.” Rambo leaps into the air, and brushes the crows claw with his teeth.

“Missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me,” Singsongs the crow. He sweeps the air with his expansive wings, “Later fur ball, I’ll be back tomorrow.” The crow disappears into the Southern sky.

Rambo begins to pack food again, wearing a teeny tiny path through the forest.

Humans have road rage, we get angry about our personal driving space. Apparently squirrels have tree rage, they get angry about other animals messing around in their tree space.

Today I learned I would rather be a crow, than a squirrel.

 

 

 

 

What Are The Odds?

 

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Democracy doesn’t mean the right to choose.

It’s Saturday night, and our television bellows out inspiring sounds of hockey playoff action. Our group surrounds the television passionately cheering the Oilers on. The players rip across the ice, the puck slams against the boards, and then rebounds to various sticks where it is directed in a flurry of action into the net. We shriek in appreciation. Throughout the game we are dedicated vocal fans. The game is almost done. The score is 2-1 for the Oilers. The Sharks pull their goalie, we watch with devoted stares, and shout out feverish advice. McDavid sends the puck into an empty net with a backhand, sealing the Oilers 3-1 win.

The Oilers— Hmmm, come to think of it, that may be the next thing on Notley’s go green agenda. Edmonton’s hockey team will have to change their name to the Anti-Oilers, or the Solar Stars, or maybe the NDP will hire a company from Ontario to come up with a name. Anyway, for now we cheer on the Oilers.

While we celebrated the crushing of the Sharks, an employee from statistics Canada had darkened our door. Unlucky us— we were chosen to do a labour survey. Lucky us— we couldn’t hear her knocking over our hullabaloo.  The government flunky left a note on the door, with her name, phone number, and an informational pamphlet on the survey. The note directed us to set up a time for the interview.

On Sunday morning, I read through the information with all the enthusiasm of having a pap smear. 56,000 lucky households in Canada receive this survey. What are the odds?We can’t win the lottery, but we get a survey? Our participation in the Labour Force Survey is mandatory. If we don’t participate we can be fined $500 and/or spend three months in jail.

I’m a peaceful individual. However, when we are forced into wasting precious moments of our lives answering a lint-licking, mind-numbing survey— it gets up in my grill. Just like hitting a prairie chicken on the highway. I can’t breath. It’s like I have feathers stuck in my craw. It gets my back up. It brings on my donkey like tendencies— make me do it. I dare you. Tug on my lead— I’ll lean back on my substantial haunches, dig my feet in, and set my jaw. You better fetch your RCMP’s— you, red-taped, willy-wanker. The heat of rebellion is brewing strongly in my guts. I better pack my bags, because I pick jail.

It’s Sunday afternoon, less than twenty-four hours after we were served with notice of impending survey. The toady from statistics Canada shows up again. I haven’t even had time, to pick the cheezies out of my hair from last nights celebration.

I answer the door, antisocial tendencies rise up inside me. I’m not ready. I’m not even prepared for jail. I should at least shave my legs.

She smiles brightly, “Hi, I’m from statistics Canada, I was here last night, I rang the doorbell, but you must have been watching the game.”

“Yes, we were,” I answer in a demon infused voice, (my kids know the one I use.) “And it’s probably not a good time now, I’m in the middle of making, chilli, chicken soup and buttermilk biscuits.” Secretly, I’m trying to weasel out of doing the survey today, so I have time to get retrofitted for my chastity belt, for my jail time.

Rick rises up the stairs, like a knight in shining armour for the flunky. He’d been watching the afternoon hockey game.

“Hi” he greets her in a welcoming tone. Ricks a nice guy. He looks gruff sometimes, but I’m the mean one. “It’s not a very nice day for traveling,” he says continuing to smile, “the snow doesn’t know when to quit, does it?”

I am in donkey mode. I am silently balking at her presence.

Flunky lady gives Rick a wide smile, “It’s melting on the road, so the driving is good. I was hoping to do the survey with your household today?” She looks at my sour puss face, and then back at Ricks welcoming grin, “I only need one person to answer the questions.”

I shrug my shoulders, “Well. Rick, do you want to do it? I have quite a bit going on in the kitchen.” I growl. It appears I’m not going to jail.

Rick waves her in, “Sure, I’ll do it. Come on in, we can sit at the kitchen table.”

Rick is such a good citizen. He is afraid to lose his cook to some jailhouse frolicking.

Once upon a time, I took a University course in statistics. There I learned information is only as good as the sources. Some people are more accurate than others. Questions on the survey were directed at every household member. Our son wasn’t home. Rick had to answer for him. His wage, and hours worked last week, are an estimate. In other words not accurate. I am certain we are not the only household with that issue. How will inaccurate answers aid in a truthful representation? And even if they are accurate, how will it really help the employment situation? Fortunately, I have the answer to that question.

The government is creating more jobs— in the Statistics Canada department.

Memory Foam

September 2009 to March 2010-15-2

Not a photo of memory foam sofa.

“But I love you.” She confesses, draping her fresh form across his lap. She pouts with a practiced face. “You would do this for me, if you really loved me.”

Air horn sounds— Let’s pause for one-second, and analyze this situation from person number ones seated perspective. You are pretty cozy right now, sitting on the memory foam sofa. I know. It’s comforting, and hugs you in all the right places. It might even be challenging to see you are being manipulated—but manipulated into what? Jumping out of a plane? Plotting a murder? Flossing your teeth with a guitar string? Getting a chin implant?

It doesn’t matter what this person wants. What do you want? Do you feel like jumping out of a plane? Do you feel like flossing your teeth with a guitar string, and then strangling someone with it? Do you really want to be the guy with the dynamic chin? Or are you just bending over, to make it easier for your loved one to insert batteries in your spine, so they can remote control your life? I know. It’s a lot of questions. The fact you removed your spine, and put batteries in its place makes decisions difficult.

Let’s look at person number two, first of all, take an acting class. Who do you think you are? Justin Trudeau? Secondly, what’s going on? Why do you need to beg? Do it yourself. Whose life is this any ways? Yours. So why do you need to manipulate others? The only life you need to worry about controlling is your own. Take your hand off the joystick on everyone else’s life, and put it on your own.

“Hey Babe, I love you.” She states, bending down to kiss him.

He blinks, and leans into her lips.

Stepping back, she shakes her head and smiles, “You’re looking pretty comfy on the sofa. “I’ll see you later.”

He watches her strut away.

She turns at the door, and meets his gaze. “I’ll be at airfield jumping out of a plane, if you feel like peeling yourself away.”

See my blog post—Jump Already.

Hope

September 2009 to March 2010-4527

Hope, I dressed it in a clown suit years ago, and treated it like a fart at the dinner table— not mine. I heckled all who held hope in high esteem. Life is not a children’s party? What is this hope nonsense you speak of? Have you been into the cracka lacka? Have you taken a good look at the world lately? It is ridiculous to hope. You have to plan to get things done— look at the North Korean leader, Kim Jong-un, he is currently writing the How to do a Nuclear Missile Test For Dummies handbook. Planning, people, it takes planning. Hope belongs to Olympic athletes, and teenage girls waiting on their pregnancy test pee stick. It belongs to kindergarten kids who want that extra scoop of bubble gum ice cream on their cake. Hope is not a realistic option for most ordinary adults.

My hopeless life continues, I work; I change jobs more than a pregnant lady has to pee, and then I don’t work. I consider becoming a free-lance writer, but that is an outlandish notion. As though clowns really do have red noses, or abnormally large feet. (If they did I am sure they would have more girlfriends, if you know what I mean? Wink, wink.) The number of talented writers in the world continues to replicate, almost at the same speed as China’s population. Seriously, who needs one more hopeful writer? Years go by and I do not write. I ignore that deep desire to put words on paper.  That would be too much like dressing up with the clowns. Nope, there is no sense jumping into that three-ring circus of disappointment. I am a practical positive person. At least I thought I was positive, but then I was lambasted in the face with a rubber chicken, in the form of a quote by Benjamin Disraeli, “I am prepared for the worst but hope for the best.”

Holy hell in a hand basket! For the last umpteen years I have only been preparing for the worst. I did not consider the best could happen. I did not hope, nor dream, and therefore did not really try. All the planning in the world would only get me as far as I allowed myself to hope. I consistently prepared for the worst— better get your radiation suit, don’t forget the gas mask, batten down the hatches matey, be on the look out for the white whale. You must keep all your hands and feet inside the vehicle, in the event of a zombie attack, objects may appear closer than they actually are…beware.

So spank me cross-eyed, I realize I need hope in my life. Being hopeful gives you vision, and supports ambition. Yes, there are many talented writers on this planet, but maybe, just maybe, with a lot of absolute vodka, and planning, I could become a writer. As Emily Dickinson once said, “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tunes without the words, and never stops at all.” In my freshly opened mind, I sing words to be spilled onto paper, like an endless exodus of clowns tumbling from the bum of a Volkswagen van.

Dreamy Dandelions

The alarm sounds. It’s an insistent tone, somewhere between annoying, and exceedingly annoying. I fumble around for the shut the hell up button. Ah, sweet silence, the inside of my eyelids invite me to sojourn in the dark warmth of comfort. Sorry lovely seductive sleep, I can’t stay long, the world requires my performance, or is it presence today.

What will the day bring? Will it be ripe with opportunity for seeds of brilliance to fly? Or will I be drawn into a scourge of unexpected weeds, invading my perfectly manicured time? Will I choose to release my inner pruner at unplanned disturbances? Shall I use tooled words, and ripped up paper to express my frustration? Will I curse with such vehemence, it causes my coworkers to wither, and scurry before me? Will it cause a flurry of finger flipping behind my back?

September 2009 to March 2010-16-2

 

Or— will I live my day, as an enthusiastic child? One, which picks a dandelion, grasping the stem with wonderment, musing over the fluffy white wand. I am a bewitched child blowing fuzz into the wind, making a wish on each far flying seed. I hop, and skip across the ground, following the fountain of spinning spore? My eyes shine, emitting the joy of magic found in the ordinary? Oblivious to the hobbling, grey haired woman across the street, who is shaking her fist, and wagging her face, at the wayward seeds landing in her immaculate flower beds. Dance along little girl, don’t look back.

September 2009 to March 2010-7

We were taught to yank out the first flowers of spring. However, we were missing some trendy information. Dandelions are all the rage— they can be made into dandelion chains for little girls to wear, devoured by animals, and be brewed into happy juice for adults. Even more amazing— they contain, vitamin C, B6, thiamin, riboflavin, iron, potassium , manganese, vitamin K, calcium, and drum roll please—vitamin A. I know, a bit of a let down, but It gave you a split second of anticipation. Plus, the tea that is made with the leaves, flowers, or roots is good for digestion, it can cleanse the liver, aid in treating diabetes and the list goes on. Look for recipes on the internet, and maybe consult with an expert if you are on other meds. You never know, it could have drug interactions, and cause spontaneous spitting or flashing. Who knew, the weed on the most wanted poster hanging in the sheriffs office was a good guy.

Life is about perspective, consider the dandelion— some see a patch of weeds ready to infect the world, some see a magical toe tapping dance partner, and others see a cure. You choose how you view your day, and your world.

Magnificent Monday

 

September 2009 to March 2010-44

It’s your choice how high to fly.

I know. I realize it’s the beginning of the week, and I’ve challenged you to an unspoken duel with all the reasons you hate Monday. It might not be fair. I might automatically win. The fact is, you may feel like an amoeba on the evolutionary scale of life. But you’re not! You have far too many cells to be an amoeba. So, how about starting your day with a different attitude? Oops, sorry, I just created a large pocket of resistance within you, with that last sentence. I felt needles rise, like a porcupine defending its territory. It’s okay. I’m poking you on purpose. I’m going to help you drop the negativity. I can see you going through your day, with all of your internalized poop weighing you down, like Beethoven’s piano tied to your ass. My friends, my friends, for God sakes— avoid the hernia cut the flipping rope.

Super job! You should feel lighter already. Today is your day. It’s your opportunity to make a difference in to at least one person’s life— your own. So play your favourite song, the one that stirs your juices and blows the lid off your dance moves. Get your enthusiasm pumping on the rhythm of life. Have that extra shot of espresso, and hear your heartbeat shout, “Enjoy yourself,  have fun because everything is going your way, everywhere you go and everything you do will work out for you.”

It’s fantastic! Just look at all the wonders of life, we have a right foot, and a left foot, such a blessing, because two left feet always cause a problem. We have noses to keep our glasses on our face, and we have the ability to drink a cup of steaming stool softener anytime we get uptight. See? Instant happiness, maybe you’ll get downright giddy, and start hugging trees, and jumping in front of an ice cream men, shouting “I love your maple walnuts.”

Word to the wise— batshit enthusiasm may be frightening to some individuals, especially ones with a forest appendage up their bum.