Flatware Love.

You know they want to be together!

(Remember last week when you caught little spoon on desert forks side!)
You know it wasn't the first time.
 You can't control this.
They want to be together.
It's time to tear down the plastic walls.


It's not your fault, so don't feel ashamed. But it really is time to move forward.

No doubt the cutlery organizer has been around as long as mankind. I'm sure it was the first thing the caveman ever carved out of stone, presented to his woman.
"Ooga  uga iga ooog" he said, which is caveman for "forks go on the right".
Cave woman was glad. This gave her something to do while she was secretly thinking about a stone-age version of Matt Dylan.
"Oga igo oooog" she said (which means "oh cool! Thanks and you can let go of my hair now")

  Cave woman had a small brain, so it seems like a time saver. She had not yet developed the intelligence to realize that while setting the cave table was about to become a bit simpler, putting the stone/flat ware away was going to take longer. The benefit had cancelled itself out. If she was smart she'd of said "ggoga uki oook", which means "what a colossal waste of time!" in caveman.

Time passed, the dinosaurs died, Jesus was born, explorers sailed the world, a million ideas and theories, tried/tested and dismissed. So what really is the point of the cutlery tray?

Why are we still trying so hard to keep the knives and spoons apart?
Why do we spend so much of our lives protecting the dinner forks from the dessert forks?

(My socks and my bras touch each other all day long...without any obvious consequences (that I know of). Sometimes I toss scarves and underwear in there.
Nothing bad has ever happened.)

Simply put, the cutlery tray is a weapon of suppression, a tool of the paranoid, an enabler to the obsessive compulsive.
The cutlery tray keeps the big spoons and the little spoons apart-(gulp.. it breaks up families!)

I know you want to control something- but you need to find something else. Let go of this primitive notion. This forced separation is futile.
Fork, knife and spoon we're meant to be together. They want to be together. They will be together!
Eventually, even IKEA won't be able to keep them apart.
It's time to dump them all into a heap and be done with it!

Friend, you and your cave-ancestors thought you were in control but you're not.
Put your ear close to the drawer.
They are laughing at you.
The spoon, the fork, the dessert fork, the butter knife, the ice cream scoop...the spatula...

 They've been doing it at the bottom of the sink the whooooole time!

Summer Job..Ooh Ya!

Dear Friends,
You keep telling me to “think outside the box” when it comes to creating summer employment for myself.
I think I’ve come up with something.
So just one question before I type up my business plan:
How much are you willing to pay me to not-talk like Russell Oliver all summer?

Now before you answer, let me first remind you that I am no Rich Little. Remember the summer I tried to talk like Paul McCartney; misquoting lines from the touching epic “Yellow Submarine" and getting all in your face with that song “Michelle”. Recall how when I lost my train of thought (which is a small train at best) I slipped into that slutty cockney accent that indirectly got us booted out of “ladies Night” at Gords’.

Having said that, imagine how annoying it will be next time we meet and I offer to “turn your kids into cash”. Oh Ya!

You’re going to hate that.

So what’s it worth to ya?

Huh??

I know you got tired of me saying “a jolly rancher is not a sprinkle” in that really unauthentic “Apu” voice I half heartedly attempt. That’s something to keep in mind next time you’re stopping at the ATM.

It’s not like my rendition of Russell is going to be any better. I probably won’t practice it before I use it in public and I am not even hell bent on quote him correctly. Remember, my standards are not all that high and I’m no perfectionist. (You do know I used face-cloths as dish towels and vice-versa right?) Okay, well as long as we’re clear. I can’t promise my summer-long impersonation will be funny. I can only promise it will get on your nerves. OH YAA!

Before you dismiss this as another Kathy-esque pie- in- the -sky get rich quick scam- like my ongoing 30 year fling with the music business (and that time I worked at Zehrs), let me say in my defence that desperate times call for desperate measures and “I’LL BUY YOUR USED JEWELRY NO QUESTIONS ASKED!”

So think about it pal, and let me know how much to put you down for.

If you’d rather not, that’s okay too.

I won’t be mad and I’ll still come to your she-she-foo-foo dinner party next month. I’ll be the one dressed as the “Loan Arranger.”

Stalking Jack

Jack, you’re on my mind: You, of magic bean myth, jumper of candle sticks, tumbling down the hill with Jill, the guy who could eat no fat and stuck your finger in a pie (snicker).

You’re everywhere man, and since no press is bad press...you Sir are legend.

I was thinking the other day about the time you traded your family’s only food source in for some magic beans. When I read this as a kid I thought it was a great move. Who wouldn’t want a magic bean stalk?
In reality, your judgement was poor. It would have been like me spending my father’s entire salary on “The Amazing Live Sea Monkeys”...and I’m not going to make that mistake again. It was risky business Jack, sacrificing your family’s security on a whim. Did you ever stop to wonder why a farmer with access to magic beans would need your cow in the first place? Then you climbed that stalk without a cell phone or a buddy to help you out. Glad the magic harp lessons paid off, but I gotta wonder if it was a smart move. You’re lucky golden eggs were even recognized as currency in your township.
Exactly how many six-pence’s is a golden egg worth anyhow?

I guess you became a bit of an adrenalin addict. Dodging a child eating giant should have been enough for you, but there you were not long after, making the headlines again jumping over candle sticks. I’m glad you’re nimble and quick but it only takes one small miscalculation to end up in the burn unit at Mother-Goose General. It wasn’t a very good example to set. Did you ever once consider your audience? How many 21st century tots have laid awake wondering how to get a hold of some tall candle sticks and their father’s Bic. Every time I see “house fire” in the news... I think of you.

Which brings me to your next escapade: Are you or are you not the same Jack who was depicted on page 235 of my beloved Mother Goose Anthology in short pantaloons putting your thumb in a pie?
You’re a cheeky boy Jack. Perhaps your mother should think twice about letting you snack during a punishment.

It’s no wonder you grew to be lard-intolerant, changed your name to Spratt and married a girl with serious fat potential. Serves you right really.

And this woman...is she Jill? The same tart you took to the top of the hill? Did she really love you or was she just after your golden eggs (so to speak)? And how is it someone claiming to be “nimble and quick” found himself tumbling down a simple hill? I saw that hill in a cartoon series. I’ll admit it was a stupid place to put a well (Mother Hubbard could never have navigated that slope), but it was nothing compared to the stalk you had famously mastered. Perhaps you should have lined the hillside with candles and leapt safetly to solid ground.

And back to Jill: did she stick around to mend your crown? Or did you turn to the Lamb-owning-Quite-Contrary-Mary for comfort?

And finally I need to know; what is your connection that notorious Pumkin-eater known as Peter-Peter? Surely it is no coincidence that two lads for the same era, found themselves in possession of giant vegetables (so to speak). Did you grow up in “The Shoe” together? Did the two of you combine your interests (pumpkins, candles) and develope a little something called the "jack-o-lantern"? And if so, where is the wife-he-couldn't-keep now that her residence has been carved up? Is she baking black-birds in a pie? Building London Bridge up with sticks and stone? Taken up with Georgie Porgie?

And one more thing Jack, do you know or know of a fellow called "Wee Willy Winky"? I read a report, (a rhyming report actually), that he once ran "up and down" the town in his "night gown". Oddly enough there is a group of young people around here that wear thier pajama pants about town and I was wondering if perhaps he might have some relatives in our shire.

Are You Married To Your Phone?

Is that a cell phone in your pocket, or are you just not all that happy to see me?
You seem distracted. No really...go on take that call.
No seriously, I don’t mind.
I’m sure whatever it is, is really important. Could be the kids wondering if there’s any milk in the fridge.
Maybe it’s your boyfriend or girlfriend just checking to see where you are. Nice!!
Perhaps your mom wants to tell you about that funny thing she saw on Dr. Phil.
You’d better take the call. Your Grandmother might be out of Werther’s or there could be a really funny squirrel in someone’s backyard. You’d better answer.

Someone might need to tell you what they had for lunch, or that funny thing the dog did at the park. It might be someone calling to apologize for calling earlier.

If it’s my dad calling, he’s hit dial by accident. You’re about to hear him eating a blue-berry bran muffin while taking a country drive. He wouldn’t call you purposely. Not, while barrelling down a gravely road at 30km and hr. That’d be dangerous.

Maybe I just have a habit of hating things I can’t afford- but I’m having a hard time embracing the cell phone. I’ve yet to receive a call from a cell by anyone who is; in trouble, in hospital, in labour, incarcerated. Mostly they just seem to make contact when they are out-and-about, running out of battery charge, slightly-out-of-range, outnumbered by “hot chicks”.

Still, we all know the panicked look of someone who realizes there phone is out of power. It’s horrible to watch. They start sweating and eyeing your outlets for a charger...

My friend Laurie Boese sent me a song idea and some lyrics. I finished it off. Sound bites to follow someday.

ARE YOU MARRIED TO YOUR PHONE?

Does your cell phone have a wedding ring?
Do you always have to bring that thing?
Every time we meet
Get together to talk or eat
Do you need it everywhere you go
The concert hall and the picture show
Would it pout if it got left at home
Are you married to your phone?

chorus:Are you married to your phone
Does it ever let you out alone?
Do you live and breathe for the dial tone
Are you married to your phone.

Does your cell phone have a wedding ring?
Do you always have to bring that thing
Every time we meet
Get together to talk or eat
I smiled and asked you up to dance
I brushed my fingers cross your pants
But it seems my hopes were cursed
Motorola got there first.

Chorus

You turn it on first thing each day
While I try to look the other way
Do you ever wonder who owns who?
Should I comeback when your contracts thru?
I don’t think we’ve been alone
Since you said I do and brought it home
The other day when we were sexting,
I looked up and you were texting
Are you married to your phone?

What’s the big emergency
do you sell Avon, or ecstasy
are you Chief of Neuro-surgery?
or just married
to
your
phone.



Photo by J. Ferguson

Letter to a Former Bicycle

In the 70s we hung posters that proudly proclaimed
“If you love something set it free. If it comes back to you its yours, if it doesn’t...it never was”
The person who came up with that never owned a dog,
or had a boyfriend who needed to see Quebec,
or a grandfather who sometimes got confused,
or a parakeet and a cat at the same time
... or a bike.
I, on the other hand, have had all of the above. Make no mistake; If you love something carry a lock and keep close tabs.

I remember that time I loved my 10 speed mountain bicycle enough to give it some freedom on the back step. Off it went in search of adventure never to return. Maybe it was looking for my boyfriend in Quebec, but more likely it snuck off with that bike-thievin’-upstairs-neighbour to trade itself in for small quantities of smack. Either way, my bike never had that “I really miss her and I’m heading back” epiphany that the slogan promised.
But it was mine.
It was definitely mine.
First I mourned, and swore off mountain biking. Then I began to hate other people who had bikes. But secretly, I missed it. I went to places we used to go together- hoping to catch it with someone else. I imagined seeing it everywhere- disguised with black paint.
I tried to convince myself it had nothing to do with me. I’d bought it from someone else, so maybe that bike had been given a little freedom in past relationships. Maybe that bike had problems with commitment.
THEN, a few months back I saw it whoring itself on Craig’s-List of all places.
I’ll admit to a slight heart flutter, but to tell you the truth I was shocked by how little I felt.
Though I instantly recognized it, my bike didn’t look quite the way I remembered. It wasn’t as large and robust. It looked thin and tired. It’s front suspension had been replaced (which didn’t surprise me- he’d always had “issues” in that department).
I saw its picture and finally felt nothing.
See, I’ve moved on.

Dear Stolen Haro mountain bike,
Well you never came back. I waited, but you didn’t come.
I’ve moved on. I have an awesome new green Norco- Cruiser. 3 speed. He’s retro. Ya, I thought that’d bug you. You know how I always had that secret thing for retro. (You were always accusing me of looking!)
Sorry to tell you, but he’s the coolest bike ever...and I do mean ever. Pedal breaks.
So I guess it worked out.
I hardly ever think of you (except when I go uphill).
I held on to your water bottle and lock key for a while, but I didn’t know where to send them, so I tossed them last spring.
Best of luck.
Kath

THE DUMB THINGS THEY MADE ME SAY

Warning: This blog entry contains the word cervix 4 times. My apologies to sensitive readers.

Sometimes you find yourself stringing together words that you never thought you would have to use in the same sentence. Things that seem so ridiculous to say, that you can’t believe they are coming from your mouth. I don’t mean the dumb things we say voluntarily- I’m talking about the stupid things you have to say- because the moment calls for them and they must be said. For me these sentences stay like embroidery on the fabric-of-my-being.

I think when I was a kid everything I said and did, happened and then dissolved. Maybe when your 7 you had to interrupt the odd game of hopscotch, to tell your mom, to tell your brother, to stop calling you a “tramp”. But you don’t realize how non-sensical it is at the time. By the time you find out what a tramp is, you’ve forgotten he called you one, (or maybe you are one), so no harm done.
When you get older you have higher expectations of what you should and should not have to say.

The first time I remember having to say something earth-shatteringly messed-up was when I was in labour with my daughter. In the course of the day’s wondrous events I was put in the position of needing to utter a request that went a little like :
“Um...The next time you abruptly ‘check my cervix’ could you first ask the visitors to leave?”
It is a miracle to me that there are even a series of words that could effectively form this request for an event that seems wrong on so many levels. Whoever developed the English language clearly thought of everything!
Now, since then I have watched a few episodes of “Birth Story”. Public-cervix-checking seems to be common place in this forum, probably because my sentence didn’t make it through the ether to birthing centres world-wide. The women on the show seem disinclined towards stating the obvious.
Cervix dilation status =Confidentiality
If anything goes without saying, it must be THAT.
Riiiiiight?????

About 18 months later I found myself at a petting zoo calmly reminding my new daughter not to “lick the pigs”.
Surely no human ever came to this world thinking a time in their life would arrive when they would have to turn to another human (small though she was) with her tongue wedge through a rusty/dirty frost fence and remind her (FIVE TIMES) that licking livestock was not a part of what we were here on earth to do. God invented lock-jaw and swine flu for these reasons-So mothers, instead of forming the warning, could just give their kid (the pig licker- who eventually came out of the-cervix-everyone-knows-about ...even before they read your shameless Blog!) a knowing glare upon diagnosis.

You allow you self to say these kinds of things, and eventually you are explaining to a grown man- that ..........
Wait for it!.....
“Your black nail polish is on the dresser beside your earrings”. Marilyn Manson years, I hated you!!!
More than more!


Other things I heard myself say that didn’t make sense:

To the dog- “Stop licking your sister!”

To my friend- “You left your accordion at my house. I tried to play it. Hope you don’t mind”

To my grandmother- ”Well, I see your point but I’m not sure my marriage broke up because I wear jeans all the time.”

To my dad- “When you’re done cutting shampoo bottles up into tiny pieces and stuffing them into a bleach bottle, would you mind giving me a lift home?”

To Phil (my former neighbour)- “Ya, so the plumbing’s broken again and when you flush your toilet it comes into my tub again. If you guys could not throw up again tonight... again, I’d really appreciate it.”

My favorite, To anonymous-“ Why does it say ‘NANCY’ on your ass?!!!”

Names

If your ass ever gets sore from that high-horse you ride around on, do a Google search of your birth name.
You’re likely to find that there are people out there who share your name and are doing far more important things than you could ever dream of.
No offence.

I Google my name on a bi-monthly basis- just to keep perspective (and cuz I get bored)
There are Kathy Evans’s who are Inner city Highschool Principals, successful web-designers, and have spear-headed research in Autism. Some are black, some are white, they are young, old, but they all have one thing in common; they are all far more interesting than I could ever be.
There is even a Kathy Evans in Illinois who lists her profession as a “suburban shaman”.
How cool is that!!?

Nothing compares to the Kathy Evans of urban legend who is said to be the “dumbest contestant to ever appear of ‘who wants to be a millionaire’”. It is a made up story, but she does us all proud.

I wish it were true.
Legend has it she blew her chance by not knowing which was larger “an elephant or the moon”.
Go us!!

I’ve done a search of some of my friends and family. They are also dull in comparison.

And a few questions for them:
Lisa, ever think of running a Ringette Camp?
Brother John, hows life as the Governor?
Pete, when do I get to taste your award winning/world famous Bison recipe?

Somewhere one of my name-sakes may be doing a similar search and have reason to question her decision make alot of money in highend real-estate. Afterall, there is a Kathy Evans in Canada who wrote a little song about drinking a Lot of Mojitos.
Suck it up Kath!!

The Adventures of Lee M. Cardholder

Here’s a fun thing to do if you are poor:
I got the idea when I was at the liquor store one day after work and the clerk who was ringing in my purchase looked at my guitar case and said “Musician? I’m guessing you don’t collect Air-miles”.
Owww!!

I start saving those fake Airmile and MasterCards that come in the mail. They usually list the card owner as “Your Name, Your company” or my personal favourite “Lee. M. Cardholder”.
I packed my wallet full of them.

My friends and family know about it and that’s the most important part of the fun. When we go for lunch I say “Let me put this on my credit card!” and I get out my wallet. They panic. People would rather pay for lunch then witness the horrible awkwardness of having the waitress return with the card and explain that it isn’t real. I have practiced my look of shock and bewilderment in case I ever really need to use it. The steps for this are the same for getting yourself out of any jam.

Step one:
Act Surprised
(Tilt head and squint eyes as if you don’t understand what is being told to you). Take card from waitress and examine it for at least 10 seconds. Turn it over. Run fingers across embossed lettering like you were touching the face of a cherished lover. (Don’t make eye contact with anyone else at the table. They will make you laugh.)


Step two:
Show Concern
The waitress will probably be telling you that you got this card free in the mail. Say something like “What?!! It’s not reeeeal!!? Why would they send this to me if I can’t use it?! What would be the point of that?!!! That doesn’t make sense!” Shake your head as in disbelief. Return your card angrily to your torn shabby wallet and hastily produce your “Your-name-your-company American express.”
The waitress will probably hand it right back to you. Again, act surprised.

Step three:
Deny Everything
If you are like me and don’t have a car, say something like “Well, this is ridiculous. I just used this card at the gas station!! And it worked fine.”

I find this to be a highly entertaining way to pass away the impoverished years. I especially like using it when I’m out with my band-mate making large purchases for the studio.
The thrill of tapping my card quietly on the counter while the clerk is making the final calculations...
“Pete...let me pay!”
The stifled smirk, the slight widening of the eyes,
“I’ll get this one Lee M., I think you got it last time.”

Bobby Sherman, Yoga Pants and Mr. Peanut

A quick show of hands: How many of you ladies own at least one pair of “Yoga Pants”. Okay now, those of you with your hands up... if you’ve actually been to a yoga class please stand.
I see,
only a few...
Now, everyone please take your seat.

Oh, one more question for those of you who own the pants but have never actually attended the class;
Do you ever harbour any guilt about participating in the Yoga-pants fashion trend without and legitimate justification? I only ask because I would be hesitant to don full cycling gear and venture out without a bicycle.

Definition of Yoga: “Yoga is an ancient art based on a harmonizing system of development for the body, mind, and spirit. The continued practice of yoga will lead you to a sense of peace and well-being, and also a feeling of being at one with their environment.”
Definition of Yoga Pants: Well you’ll have to read it for yourself as I have chores to do:
but the thing that struck me the most was that the popular Lululemon yoga pant sells for about $108 American dollars. And product review contains the phrase “Many a yogini swears these reversible pants are the ones that make her butt look its best.”OH!
Well then!
( I read it twice to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.)

I guess those “Yogini’s” (is that even a word?) haven’t yet achieved that “sense of peace and wellbeing” and are still stuck in the “how does my ass look in these over-prices sweats” phase of their emotional growth.

I don’t actually own a pair of Yoga pants, (cuz I don’t have $108) and have never been to a yoga class. I do have friends that have the pants. They might go to Yoga and just aren’t talking about it but as far as I can tell they mostly wear them to grocery shop and drink. They think “Upward Dog” is a little-known rapper from Oakville.

“Yoga pants” as far as I can tell are just sweat pants with a flared bottom. In other arms of the clothing industry they might refer to them as “boot cut sweats”- but if they did that, certain people might actually attempt to wear them with boots- You know who you are.

I mostly hate them because OLD NAVY is pushing them. Old Navy has a habit of describing a product like it comes with an adventure. I disowned them when they came up with the “Alpine Hoody” a hooded sweatshirt with furry lining whose name implied a promise of a Chalet vacation. I also won’t be buying one of those “Cabana Dresses” they advertise. They’re product names are an insult to consumers.
I stopped believing what I saw in commercials the day I pulled the Bobby Sherman record from my box of Sugar Crisp and it refused to work on my Mickey Mouse turn table. So, enlightenment for $19.98?
I don’t think so.

I mean, don’t get me wrong- Yoga Pants are cool. But they aren’t as cool as a monocle. I wouldn’t sport a monocle without knowing at least a few of Mr. Peanuts dance moves.


But I understand completely. We all like to think we are moving towards enlightenment eventually.
So it’s nice to know that when the day to make that first step towards “peace and wellbeing” comes, you won’t have to rush out for some pants to do it in.

The Scale of 1-10...and other things LOVE has ruined.

Many things decay- Some quicker than others- fallen willows, window frames, dead hamsters in an old shoe box. The latest casually is “The Scale from One to Ten”.
Back in the day (and I can say that because I’m over 30) “The Scale from One to Ten” was a perfect system of measuring anything from pain to the hunkiness of the new guy in English class. It was easy and universally understood.
One, was the least hunky a guy could be and five meant he was average.
If new-guy-in-English-class was deemed to be a 10, it meant his sexiness was unsurpassable.
10, you understand, being the highest and last number, was therefore the ceiling of hotness.
This scale was used by boys, girls, men and women all over the world as long as I’ve been alive and maybe even since the beginning of time.

Adam: “Eve, on a scale from one to ten, how badly do you need me to bite that apple?”
Someone or something picked a tiny hole in this perfect 1-10 system. The rain has been seeping in ever since, rotting it from the inside out.

The puss has spread faster than wildfire, leaving girls everywhere to wonder if being rated a "10" by their boyfriends doesn’t still leave room for improvement.

It’s even oozed into the Percentile Chart inspiring people everywhere to exclaim that they are 110 % sure of this or that.
Who do we blame? That’s a good question.

First let’s talk about the Mother’s-Arms-Scale-of-Measurement.When we were kids our mom use to say she loved us “this much” and spread her arms out as wide as possible. It was a lot of love!- two huge arm lengths, and more importantly, it was as far as she could stretch. It was the ceiling, the unsurpassable amount of mom love! If we wanted more mom-love. ..we’d have to hit our mom in the head with an Etch-a-Sketch, bury her in the sandbox and find a mom with bigger arms. But why would we? This one loved us the most- with both arms. What happened to cause moms around town to start announcing “I love you more than my arms can reach” or “I love you this much times x infinity”. It’s just not right.

After a short period of investigation I think we can say with certainty that LOVE itself is the culprit. Love, being the greatest and most confusing of all human emotions, creates in humans a bloated sense of importance. Love, you see is the ceiling. On a scale from 1-10. Love is 10. It’s as good as it gets. But that’s not good enough for love. Love makes people want to be 200% sure of each other and taunts you into saying things like “I love you more than more”. Before you know it, your standing in triage at the hospital describing your appendicitis to a nurse as “11 out of ten”. Because it’s as painful as your lover is hot. If the nurse were to ask you “How much do you hate this pain”. You might answer “more than more!” “Are you sure you need to see a doctor?”, “Yes, a trillion percent sure! And I need it like yesterday!”

WHY DO YOU ASK?

Why do you ask?
A very important question!
"Do you want a coffee?" is different from "could I make you a coffee?" I learned this from visiting my mom, who would ask me “Do you want a coffee?” and then would ask me to make one for her too while your up. I fell for it for years- along with the excuse that she didn't want to disturb the dog sleeping nearby.
It was my own fault. I wasn't answering her question with the right question.

Always, always, always ask “why do you ask?”
This rule is especially pertinent when someone asks for details about your schedule.
Remember, knowledge is power. Never answer a devilish question like "What are you doing on Friday night?" without a clear understanding of why you are being asked.
Your chances of getting invited to a cool party are alot slimmer than your chances of being asked to babysit a chinchilla, move a freezer or drive to the airport.

I mean, when you think of it all decent civilized invitations started with "You are invited to blah blah blah at such-n-such a time". They never first insist on knowing what you may or may not being doing at said-time. Do you think the Queen of England ever roped Tony Blair into a meeting with the old "What-cha doin Tuesday?" scam?
Be extrememly suspicious of this question- especially if the time and day in question are early in the week. Nothing fun ever happened on a Monday thru Wednesday. Admitting to an open calendar on any of these days is very bad indeed. The best you can hope for is an invitation to a dance recital. Worste case, you'll be hiding a body, cheating on a urine test or serving coffee at a naked seniors centre.
If I wanted to make coffee wouldn't I go to moms?

"Why do you ask?" has a second cousin called "Why do you wonder?".
It will also work in a pinch.
If you know why they are wondering you will be able to formulate an excuse for that-thing-you-wouldn't-want-to-do-if-you-knew-about-it-straight-up.
For that excuse, might I suggest a bogus "medical proceedure"? Anyone with any cooth at all will refrain from asking you what kind, and cut you a 4-day window of avoidance incase the proceedure really does exist and you might want to describe it to them.

For my friends who are still questioning the importants of "Why do you ask?"
I have a few stories to illustrate my point;

STORY 1:

A few summers back I was talking to a guy I know. He had just finished mowing his lawn and was talking off his shirt. My eye was immediately drawn to the small white object resting in his navel. I didn’t have to be a CSI agent to know he’d of tested positive for Orville Redenbacher.
“Did you have popcorn today?” I asked.
HERE, would have been the place for him to question my question. It seemed random amongst “Your yard looks great” and “What kind of tree is that?” The heat of the day had fogged his judgement I guess.
“I had some yesterday. Why?”
His "why" came too late. His failure to question my question led him to devulge information about his belly buttons ability to harbour snack foods over a 24 period inspite of yard work and gravity.
Don't let this happen to you.

STORY #2
About 10 years ago I got a call from a guy I knew
Him: “Kathy, the reason I am calling is; I’m putting together a photo shoot for a calendar featuring girls and guitars. Each month will feature a pretty girl playing a cool guitar.
I thought about you. Do you still have that awesome 1965 Fender electric?”
It was late.
I wasn’t thinking.
Me: “Yes! I do!!”
Him: “I was wondering if I could borrow it for the shoot?”
Me: OUCH!!

(Somewhere at the bottom of a local landfill is my complimentary copy of a 1998 calendar with a picture of some chick holding my sweet vintage 1965 Fender Mustang guitar between her brand new breasts.)

Things were never the same for me and that guitar.
I sold it a couple of years later. But it was a lesson well learned.
Always ask “Why do you ask?”

SWF Seeks Summer Income

Now that the school year is winding down so are the zeros in my bank account. Granted, there was only two of them, but I will miss those little suckers!

It appears the time has come to get one of the job things you people are constantly going on about.
So, this songwriter is now excepting applications from would-be money-givers (or "employers" I think they are called.)

According to the merriam webster dictionary, a "job" is "something done for private advantage." That's not usually the way I roll, but what the heck. The kind dictionary folks even had a link to an audio pronunciation of the word for those of us who were unsure. Go on! Try it out.

http://www.merriam-webster.com/cgi-bin/audio.pl?job00001=job

So future employers; I have a few questions to ask before we firm up the details. First
Have YOU ever been convicted of a crime for which a pardon has not been granted?
This is important. I like to have something good to talk about at break-time- (which I assume will be many and long...yes?). This would be excellent fodder for lunch time chats and possible a song or two.
Secondly, how do you plan to make good use of my drawing, painting, rhyming skills in your company?
Also, I might mention that in my other job as a musician we are usually comp-ed with free drinks. Will this also be the case at your business?
How would you feel about me starting each morning with the phrase "I soooooo DON'T want to be here!!"
Great! I think were ready to talk cash-ola. I need it, and I need alot of it.
I may possibly need it up-front. Did I mention I do calligraphy? Perhaps you could use me in your accounts department scripting pay cheques in old-English fonts?

Anyway. Call anytime soon (while I still have phone service)
Kathy

BLOG TO SELF

Dear Future-Hot-Self,
This is Present-Day-Cold-self here. I know this crooked floored places is usually unbearably toasty, but today its cold and I think we may want to remember that. Now that the early spring has reverted back to its old "I'll get there when I get there" ways, and the furnace is off, I have one thing to say at it "brrrr".

Remember the winter? All that dry heat pouring through the afore mentioned crooked floor, flying past us as we went about our day. The way you pranced around in a tank top and shorts, windows open singing Beach boy tunes..? I could use a little of that this morning. I'm freezing. I wish I had Bill Cosby's sweaters.
Oh, and Future-Hot-Self, we could use a few more pairs of socks.I put some laundry on yesterday and have only yesterdays-socks to keep me from frost-bite.
FHS, can you recall the summer? The muggy, sticky, every-thing-smells-like-Labrador-Retriever days of summer? Sneaking out to the roof at 4:00 for a breeze? Believe it or not, I long for that right now. Last night I had to pull my bra out of my sleeve and do the two-second t-shirt switch. Now is not the time to have nipples.

Well, I gotta fly. There is a hot shower to be had and the cold agony that follows. A month from now, when the temperature of this place reaches a bizillion degrees. you'll be peeling yourself off the sheets for a cold bath. Think of me then old friend.

Anyhow, Present-Day-Frumpy-Self is sitting here in an old painting sweater and she wants to say somethings to Future-Sexy-Self (copycat!) so I'd better go.

Sincerely
PDCS.

Raising Unawareness

Will you NOT sponsor me in the Non-Event to Raise Unawareness for Nothing?

(Don't answer. That was a hypothetical question. Like; "What's with kids these days?" "What's so funny bout peace love and understanding?" and my personal favorite "How are you?")

But back to my original question; Would you please NOT sponsor me in the non-event to raise unawareness? Its a not-very-far km run, but they said I could walk...or ride my bike, or even ask someone to drive me. There is a token entrance fee and you can collect sponsors if you feel like it, or not.

The hardly-any proceeds are going towards helping people who are too aware of something to become slightly less aware. This is only the first year, but hopefully this non-cause will really lay low. Eventually unawareness of nothing might really be an average thing. That's be great.
Anyhow, if you feel like participating I'll try to remember to send you link or something. Or we could talk about it if we randomly bump into each other..
if we think of it...
or not.
I hate to bring it up, but in a way, you owe me. sort of. Last year I said I'd sponsored you in the "Dance for Acne" I don't think I gave you the 2 bucks but I bought some chocolates from your kid when the Hurray-for-Everything-Club at his school was planning a trip to "Someplace Awesome".
But no pressure really. That would defeat the purpose.
In fact,
forget I mentioned it.

You Have My Heart...

...and the last role of toilet paper.
But thanks for the warning.
It proves I raised you well.

Only a jungle animal would go into someones apartment, steal the last role of T.P and not leave reference to in small print on a south Park-esque cartoon depiction she did of her mom destroying the world with a hippy guitar powers.
See, not everyone is as thoughtful as you. Some brats would just take the T.P and run. And granted, the stores were closed by the time I got home, but that is neither here nor there. The point is- you let me know. And that makes me feel like I've done a good job raising you. So, when you and your punk-rock friends are out tagging the town or what ever it is you do, or next time you are getting a tattoo with your grocery money, you can sit back and be proud of yourself for this proud moment of "I took the toilet paper and let you know".

I love you. You are awesome. I hope you enjoy your new apartment. don't go out alone after dark and please lock the doors.
Now, is there something you'd like to tell me about my diminished towel supply?

Accidentally Amish

Amish Day
Saturday, May8th
12:04- Tree falls 2 houses down. Takes the hydro with it. I don't notice because my student and I are playing Taylor Swift songs along with a YouTube video. Deeply engrossed we are. Her Mom comes to retrieve her and has to park under a live hydro line. Thats why I make them pay cash.

To whom it may concern,
I may have been inadvertently entered in some sort of Amish for a day contest. This is obviously a mistake. Please remove my name from your list and restore the hydro on my street.

1:00pm
Cordless phones don’t work without hydro? Who knew? Luckily I have one of those old-school phones that belonged to my grandmother when she was living. I have to cancel a guitar student- due to no amp power, street closed off and a freezing cold room. Dear God, you owe me $17.00.

1:30 So bored. Thinking of calling Grama's old number.

2:00 This beer is going to go warm. I may as well drink it.

3:30 The cold reality is sinking in. I thought heat came from the basement. Someone has lied. Everything I do relies on electricity. I just text ed you to tell you that...but it won’t send. The cable is down.

3:34
I’ve called everyone I know to tell them a tree fell on my street. Oddly, they treat my great news with only mild enthusiasm. Clearly i am in this alone. Time to form an action plan.

4:00
Going to Kara's where there is electricity.

7:00
Returned to Albert Street. Situation unchanged. My neighbours seem bored. Some are irritated. My mother was wrong. Stuck up people aren’t necessarily shy.

7:04
Cant seem to except the fact that the lights don’t work. I find myself wondering if the lava lamp might also run on some extraterrestrial power. My hand moved towards the switch. Damn.

8:52 wondering what possessed me to place all decorative candle holders in seemingly hard to reach places. Its cold, its dark and now I feel extremely short.

8:54 wondering if empty liquor bottles would make good candle holders.
8:56 Place lit up like a Stevie Nicks photo shoot. Patron bottle makes especially affective candle holder.

8:57 Would rather have full bottle of Patron.


9:00pm The only thing warm around here is the inside of the fridge.

9:02 pm This is so freeeeeeaaaaaaking boring.
9:04 ...Like camping without smores, or friends.
9:05. ...Wishing you were here- (please bring s’mores and tequila ).

9:15 Finding pajamas by candlelight. I really should organize my drawers.

9:18 Putting on something that may or may not be pajamas.

9:20 Huddling under blankets on couch. I can see the lights of Louisa Street from my front window. All lit up like Choo-Choo Charlies. You hydro-having bastards. I hate you all.

9:30 I think I hear the food in my fridge going bad. Luckily I hardly go grocery shopping, so its not a very loud sound.

9:35- playing a game of Majong with last of battery power on laptop.

9:42 checking light switch- just to be goofy.

9:50 repeated saying “Heeeello Awe-mish Dog!” to Byron. Just to see his reaction. He is also not amused. Which is strange since he’s never been allowed to use any of the electric appliances anyway. Perhaps the below zero air temperature is harshing his buzz.

9:52
Taking a beer out of the fridge so it can stay cold.

10-11:00
doing less than nothing.

11:00- Blowing out candles and sleeping on couch.

May 9-
7:00 I dreamt the hydro company was working outside my window all night and that I woke up freezing cold with no hopes of a shower or a hot coffee. See, dreams really do come true.

7:30 Drinking fairly decent coffee from boiled water and hand held coffee filter. Cream curdled but delicious. I rock. I am survivo woman. Placed in the primitive environment with nothing but a comforter, a 70s phone a gas stove and a store 2 minutes away. Doing remarkable well all things considered.

8:21 am-Dear Internet, I miss you most of all.

8:49 Ashton Kutcher- If I’m being “punked” please show up soon with a Starbucks and a 10 minute hot-shower.

9:45
If it wasn’t for my wrist watch I would have no idea of the time. I would have to build a sundial- without online instructions...or call someone and ask.
Thankgod for the wrist watch. It is nearing 10:00 a.m.
The clock in the kitchen has read 12:04 (and 15 seconds) since the giant tree fell and turned albert street into a primitive culture. By now, the only thing in my fridge I can truley trust is a tall can of tuborg. Its a bit early for beer- according to my wristwatch. STILL...the clock in the kitchen does say 12:04, which is a respectable hour for a beverage. And I am bored. And the beer is in the Kitchen...where the clock says 12:04. What do you think happens next?


9:50
The neighbourhood is dividing itself in a “Lord of the Flies” fashion. Yesterday some left to go to dinner and did not appear to return. Half of those that stayed peered out the window all night and are mighty greasy and grumpy this morning. They are under the mistaken impression that being short with the hydro workers will help things along.

Dear neighbourhood people,
STEP AWAY FROM THE LARGE MAN IN THE GIANT ORANGE PANTS!! He is my only hope of having a bubble bath. If you mess this up for me there will be payback. I have pooping dogs. I’m not afraid to use them on your neatly preened yards.

If service is never restored, and a tribe leader needs to be chosen, I am voting for the nice Lady who said she lived at number 18. She was smart enough to walk to Tim Horton's. And she smiled at the hydro repairmen.
When my wrist watch battery goes, she seems like the type who could help me build that sundial (or at least tell me the closest place to find a new battery).

I have gone to the store twice. Just to remind myself what electricity sounds like. And for smokes.

Here, there is only silence.
I can hear the Tuborg fizzing in my esophagus.
A small dog licking,
a large dog dreaming.
I think we are all missing toast.

10:14 am- the street is taken off bypass. Energy rushes in. The fridge, clock, TV come to life. It seems deafening for a moment. Unexpected.
We have a pulse!!
Digital clocks flash,. 12;00. 1200 1200 1200


The Amish, marry young and have big families. I know why. In the electricity barren world, you need people to talk to. Games of candle light Pictionary, knock knock jokes, someplace to keep you milk fresh (like a cow)
The Land of no electricity, is no place for a lady and her dogs. If my Facebook was up and running Id change my status to "I'm cold and its dark. Do something!!”

I dodged the great blackout of 2003.
I was in Halifax visiting my brother. We were in a well lit tavern when the news flashed on the big screen. People walking home from work – downtown Toronto to Etobico. We thought, whoa, that sucks. And ordered another round. I have a new respect for you all.

10:20 am
I unplug my grandmothers phone from the 70’s, toss her a silent “thankyou!” and turn my chordless on. “YOU HAVE NO NEW MESSAGES”. Seriously???

I Finish my breakfast beer and turn my thought to a hot bubble bath.