Ten, no, Nine, I mean Seven, oh F**k it, I can only think of Six Steps to Better Communication

CAUTION: There are a lot of bleeping a*terisks in this entry. Children and more sensitive viewers should just leave the room.

         

The problem with this country is that people don't know when to shut up and listen. Listening, dear readers, is at the heart of any good communication. Just ask the guys who beat their girlfriends. The first thing you hear when they get out on bail is, "She just doesn't f**kin' listen." Exactly. If only she'd taken that extra five minutes to let him call her a "st*pid, ugly c-word" for the umpteenth time. 

          Too often, we are guilty of just waiting for the other person to finish doing their blah-blah-blahs, so we can have our turn. For example, when I scream at you to go "F**k yourself," the average American cannot pass up an opportunity to reply with an equally enthusiastic response, "No, YOU go f**k YOURself, a**hole!" And the rules of engagement require that we continue this witty repartee until one of us is dead. What a shame. If only one of us, preferably YOU, had listened.

          Which brings me to the first of my Ten, no, Nine, I mean Seven, oh F*ck it, I can only think of Six Steps to Better Communication:

          Step Number One: If someone insists on telling you that you're the dumbest f**k in the history of m*nkind, just because you locked the keys in the car with the engine running, why not take a lesson from our froggy compadres on the European continent? Next time, pretend to be French and ignore anyone speaking English. It gives the appearance of listening. But nothing says "Up yours, mon ami!" with more flair than a Parisian who stares and pretends he can't speak your language. It’s all about the communication.

          Step Number Two: When some little old lady tells you to "F**koff, you g*dd*mn m*th*rf**ker," just because you took the last Tickle Me Elmo, I recommend my own great grandmother's answer to almost any request, which was, "Go tell my a**, my head's gone a huckleberryin'." During the silence which passes for listening, while everyone within earshot is trying to figure out what the h*ll that means, you can be back in your car and cruising into a McDonald's Drive Thru for a grilled chicken wrap and a $1 drink. What’s with old people these days, anyway?   

          Step Number Three: Another classic American opportunity to shut up and listen occurs at sporting events. Standing up to cheer often knocks over the red Solo cup of the guy behind you, so you can now listen to him address you in tried and true American fashion, "You effing d*ldo, sit the f**k down!" No need to say another word. In the spirit of cooperation, however brief, simply lower your butt back down and wait for the next goal, basket, touchdown, or home run. Then stand up and knock over his red Solo cup. Again. And again. And again. In fact, if timed early and often, you can listen to that whiny d**kbreath sitting behind you all night long. Assuming you're not in a concealed carry state. 

          Step Number Four: Once you've mastered the first three steps of listening, you can start to reply to any communication with greater confidence. All you have to do is think before you speak. How easy is that? For example, I was recently called a "D*mb B*tch by a total stranger who took exception to my attempt to toss a half-full Slurpee into a trash can. From a football field away. Probably because I missed and left a trail of Slurpee juice all over him and his table. I stopped, like the good listener I am, to hear him rant at me about my lack of skill. But then I thought he was being a jerk, so I jammed a forefinger into each of my ears and started repeating my favorite mantra, "lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala!"  You bet I gave that bleeping b*sta*rd something HE could listen to.          

          Last but not least, we come to Steps Five and Six:

          Reread Steps One through Four. 

Okay, show of hands. How many of you were thinking, "Well, f**k her"? Haaaaa. 

OMG.

I am too shocked to write verses about these pictures yet. 

But I won't stop you.

Do you realize how courageous I am just to post these?

My bangs look like Donald Trump's combover.

Nice lower lip. It looks like my tongue. 

Holy crap. 

My glasses are melting! [Those yellow wires are my earphones. 

I'm attached to my computer as I shoot these pix.]

Big upper lip. The better to blow my nose with.

Teeth as big as my feet. 

Mrs. Linklater's March of Rhymes

You know how sometimes you feel like taking funny pictures 

and writing some silly rhymes? Well, this was one of those times. 

We once had a cousin who smelled like a turtle.

When she sniffled her nose, it made a loud gurgle.

Her eyes were two sizes, one big and one small.

And the bangs on her forehead didn’t look right at all.

There once was a neighbor named Mrs. MaGillacuddy.

She had a big chin and talked like a fuddy-duddy.

She wore funny glasses that pinched her long nose.

And when she ate chocolate she stood on her toes.

Your sitter was born with some google - ly eyes

That look quite amazed, even kinda surprised.

They even get bigger when she happens to see

Her blueberry pie all covered with bees. 

The lady next door had a face that was twisted.

Her nose would do anything her upside down cheeks did.

When she tried to eat food, it fell out when she chewed.

She had to sneeze fast or her head would unscrew. 

Stubborn Tree

This tree got in the way of the sunset I wanted to shoot. Seriously. Every time I moved somewhere to capture the bright colors of the clouds, this tree jumped up and stood in front of me. Bitch. In fact, originally I had no plans to shoot the sunset at all. I was about to go inside a friend's house for supper, when I saw the bright sky and decided to go back to the car to get my camera. When I got back, this tree was in the way. It wouldn't let me shoot around it. No matter where I stood. Because I tried. 

I know. You don't believe me. 

Death to You Too, AdSense

I suddenly noticed that no ads were appearing on my blog. At first I just thought they were slow to load, but when I clicked on the button to see a detailed bunch of AdSense analytics, I got a nasty death message --


Your AdSense account has been disapproved for a Terms and Conditions violation. View the AdSense Terms of Service.


Disapproved for a violation? Could you be more obtuse? As if reviewing the AdSense Terms of Service will give me any clue as to what I could have possibly done wrong. Because it certainly wasn't my intention to violate your insane code of conduct. Who ever intends to cut off a flow of money, however much of a trickle it may be? 


But AdSense is a company that thrives on terror. And must enjoy the shock of informing its victims of the death sentences it so gleefully imposes. Not a speck of tolerance from these arbiters of proper behavior.  


Well, guess what, AdSense, I have zero tolerance for you too, and your freaking flannel-shirted minions. 


And yet, I wonder what terms and conditions AdSense thinks I have violated. Like I'll ever find out. AdSense's claim to fame is that they don't tell you what you did, they only say you did something and then proceed to extract their punitive payment for it.  


Yes. I should have received a notice of my malfeaseance. But no-o-o-o-o, I never received a notice anywhere about anything. Their answer to that is to suggest that said notice might be lost in a spam folder. NOT. 


Frankly, I don't need the chance to earn $100,000 every month. 


However, what I would like to do is remove their code from my blog. And I am not sure how to do that. Meanwhile I have two blank spaces where ads for wet basements used to be. 


UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE -- Mrs. Linklater had her mojo working and removed the blank spaces where ads used to be without too much trouble. All by herself. Thank you very much. 

Speecy, Spicey Meatballs

I walked into The Spice House in Evanston, IL not knowing what to expect. Besides parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. Ha. I kid. The first thing that happened was a friendly young man who had a college-educated look -- eyes alert, not bloodshot, hair combed, not gnarly, shirt pressed, not flannel, nails clipped, not dirty. He stopped what he was doing and offered to help me, instead of pushing by me like I was in the way. 

          I saw some taco seasoning and wondered about that. He first let me smell it and I was surprised at how fragrant it was. And hoped I wouldn't sneeze. Before I knew it, he was hand-scooping a bunch into a jar for me, while keeping up his snappy patter, answering my endless questions about where and why and how The Spice House gets its spices, as well as the difference between the spice we call cinnamon and real cinnamon, both of which he let me smell. If you're ever out of ammonia, fresh squeezed cinnamon can bring down the thunder. [Okay, it's not squeezed, but you get the idea.] I also checked out the paprika, which didn't smell like any paprika I recall. At least any paprika I bought in the spice aisle at my local grocery. 

          Then he gave me a tour of the place, which, for a spice store, is as big as some restaurants I've been to. Since I also needed some vanilla, he gave me the vanilla tour like a docent at a museum. During his monologue, I learned that there are three types of vanilla bean -- Madagascar, Tahitian, and Mexican. The Madagascar is the most expensive, since it's grown on an island located in a to-hell-and-back-part of the Indian Ocean. And the locals have to row it to the mainland. Or something.

          I got some of the Tahitian because it's twice as strong as regular, so if you're a vanillaphile, you can add one teaspoon and get twice the kick. Not that I get my kicks from vanilla, but I do like what it does to food. The Mexican version of vanilla is the one most people buy, since it's the one most grocery stores supply. Each vanilla smells much differently from the others -- for instance, the one from Madagascar has "chocolate notes."
          On my way out I saw some candied ginger next to the 100-year-old cash register, which was there for decoration -- the cash register, not the ginger -- and I bought a bag of that, too. The ginger, not the cash register. All in all, it was a great day for good smells and anticipation of what I'll be cooking and baking soon. UPDATE: I actually mixed some of the taco seasoning in a sauce and ate it on pasta. Hey I didn't have any ground beef.

          

That's the young man who helped me out.

This is just one part of one wall in one section of the store.

The pictures above and below feature spices to accompany 

the ethnic foods of Chicago's neighborhoods.

A shot of the window on one side of the store below.

Why Drop Acid When a Peanut Butter Sandwich Works Just as Well?

Last night I had all four of my passports stolen, somewhere in the middle of Milan in a shopping area that had a brick-paved piazza. 


It looked like a scene from an Italian opera, where a tenor aria is sung offstage to start the show as you watch the day slowly begin to dawn -- a classic Franco Zeffirelli production. Only it felt more like New York for some reason. 


I went to the police to get them to download the footage from the video cameras so we could catch the guy, who was tall enough to be a basketball player. 


The thief also took the four t-shirts I got with each passport, which annoyed me as much as losing the passports. 


After putting up with the usual bureaucratic rigamarole, I went into one of the charming medieval buildings to see if I recognized anyone coming out of the offices inside. And sure enough there was the guy, carrying a bunch of papers in his hand. 


So I went up and attacked him, screaming and yelling that he had my passports -- and where were my t-shirts by the way?!!!  He dropped everything, trying to get out of way and sure enough, there they were, all four passports with their distinctive blue covers. AHA!! Gotcha!! But no t-shirts. 


Yep. A dream. I forgot the first rule of eating before bedtime -- don't. 

Puppy Dog Tales

If you're ever in Evanston, Illinois, get over to Central Street and check out the restaurants and shops just WEST of Green Bay Road. As main drags go, Central Street isn't considered Evanston's downtown shopping area. Not by a mile. In fact, it's about a mile away from the heart of the town in a quiet little world of its own. If you want a landmark, Ryan Field, Northwestern University's football stadium, is also on Central Street, just a couple of blocks EAST of Green Bay Road.
          Most stadiums I know are on or near the college campus, but Ryan Field is smack dab in the middle of a suburban neighborhood, surrounded on all sides by houses and apartment buildings. As you're driving along a leafy, tree-lined street, suddenly a huge football field looms up in front of you, out of nowhere. A little disconcerting if you're new in town.
          You can always park in the stadium lot and stop for a hotdog at Mustard's Last Stand to keep up your strength on the walk to the stores and eateries. MLS is a classic college wiener shack that butts up on the edge of the parking lot. On game days the place is as crowded as an El train during rush hour. And not much bigger.
          But today, no hot dogs for me. I parked a few blocks away by the Happy Husky Bakery, about ten steps off Central on Prairie. My plan was to purchase some Pupcakes and various other handmade baked birthday treats for one of my granddogs, Mishy. Their website doesn't do the place justice, but it's a place to start especially if you're looking for specialty dog and cat foods -- www.happyhuskybakery.com. You can order whole cakes for your dog if you give them a day or two. They like to let the frosting sit overnight so it's just the right texture for spreading. Yep. You'll be paying good money for these baked goods.


This is Mishy, aka Mimi, or Kongzilla, one of my two granddogs. She is two today. She's wearing that lovely pink tulle birthday collar so you know she's a girl. Otherwise, you might think she's in drag. I have never seen a more muscular, athletic, female dog. Perhaps because her father's name is Tank. She is definitely not anybody's bitch. Even with that girlie outfit on.

This is one of the happy huskies from the Happy Husky Bakery. He is named Astaire. At the request of one of the owners, he is showing off the universal handshake trick. The other happy husky, partially hidden, is Ginger. Get it? Fred and Ginger? Or, in this case, Astaire and Ginger. 

There's the birthday cake we couldn't buy. So we took some of the smaller bone-shaped Pupcakes instead. 

The cookies on the top shelf are peanut butter, the heart-shaped ones below have cheese. And I forget the rest of the flavors, but they all sounded so tasty I ALMOST tried one myself. 

Some of the fancy food you can purchase for your pets. 

 Mishy popped one of the balloons, because she does things like that. March 11 is free nail trimming day, if you and your dog are in the area.

This is the entrance to Happy Husky Bakery. I guess I could have put it first, but that requires planning. 

Rocky, left. Mishy, the birthday girl, right. 

This is Elmer, er, Nemo, er, Elmo

There's a new cat in town. Or at my stepmother's house at least. After several unsuccessful attempts, my patient stepma has procured the services of a new family pet, whose name keeps changing. I guess he was called Elmer by the rescue people, perhaps even by his former owners, allegedly an elderly couple who could no longer care for him. I thought he deserved a more catlike name for his moniker, since Elmer has been associated with more bovine creatures in my life. And seems to go better with Fudd than feline. 

          I know it sounds fishy, but Nemo was suggested as an alternative and lasted for a short time. However, Elmo seems to be winning out, not for any aesthetic or philosophical reason, except that people keep mixing up Elmer with Nemo and coming out with Elmo. It doesn't really matter, since most cats I've known respond best to "Here kitty kitty" anyway.

          Clearly he has not missed too many meals. And, judging by his outgoing personality, affectionate demeanor, and willingness to let you scratch his head, his belly, and under his chin, Elmo was treated well in his previous life. He has a beautiful tail, supposedly from a DNA connection to a Maine Coon cat somewhere in his past. However, even though he has black stripes across his back, I don't think his mother reconnoitered with a skunk at any point. His eyes look yellow in these pictures, but they are, in fact, a lovely shade of green. He's a regular decorative accessory. And no doubt, a lively addition to the neverending excitement which drives this blog. Here are some photos for you to peruse.