A Piece of Furniture

I’m so used to it, I don’t mind at all. Not sure I ever did actually, being a part of the environment, blending in and taken for granted, all leave me feeling comfortable. It’s as though I’m just like a natural rock formation, not one that gets a second look, but one you overlook.

When younger, seeking attention was part of establishing my presence I guess, but as I got older it was no longer necessary. Not having found that ten minutes of fame everyone is said to get in their lifetime. I settled back to watch everyone else practicing their smiles and brushing their hair in anticipation. I was as good as any of them in my day though. I could dance like Travolta, sing like a Bee Gee, albeit in a lower key and God I was handsome. Mustn’t sell myself short, I’m still capable of self deception even today.

I once went to a costume party where apart from the guy dressed as a dirty old man, mine was the only character everyone immediately knew, Don Johnson from Miami Vice. White T with blue stripes, black jacket with sleeves rolled up, and the three O’clock shadow. A very attractive young lady walked into the party and came straight up to me without speaking to anyone else. She was almost wearing a bare midriff top which didn’t quite conceal her breasts. I maintained a calm expression and was mentally reviewing what to say, when she introduced herself  and commented on how cute the two year old son perched on my left hip was. I’ve always wondered how my wife knew just when to go the loo. It proves I had the “something” back then, though I’m quite happy without it now. Turned out the dirty old man was being himself, and if honest I would admit the beard shadow was two days old and aided by mascara, but that’s a part of my life for another time.

Being just a piece of the furniture was driven home a couple of nights ago, the rest of the family in bed, I was watching the tube at around 11:00pm. As all men do, I have my spot, this is where I sit and no one else, at least when I’m home. The couch has a permanent indentation from my rear end which makes lying back comfortably at just the right angle easy. Feet up on the coffee table, remote in hand and cold glass beside me, no worries.

The volume must have been very low; because it was at this point the unannounced visitor arrived. I saw him from the corner of my eye, he just walked out and sat on the edge of the couch, didn’t even glance my way. He stared down the hall standing on his hind legs, whiskers and nose twitching, front paws in an almost prayer like pose. He stood there for about seven seconds, though it seemed a lot longer. He then turned to look at the TV and walked slowly back to the cushion he had crawled from under, disappearing beneath again.

Bottom line? Even the mice treat me like a piece of the furniture, but I have no problem with that. By the way, our cats name used to be Hunter, not sure what we’ll call him from now on.

December 15, 2009  PS:  Why has no one noticed the girl on the TV scratching the cats ear?

JAWhite                            "Nice Puss" Photo: By JAWhite, I'm sure you can tell.
December 2009
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Christmas Eve and Here I Am

Here it is 3:30 in the afternoon, December the 24th 2009. Why am I sitting here writing yet another story for a blog? It can only be that I feel an obligation to my reader. Mom and Dad are away from home tonight so I know that only leaves you and me my friend. I hope you know how much every word here means to me.

My feet are aching something terrible, it was left up to me to go to the Mall, one more time for the pre-Christmas shopping. This time it was for things to eat tomorrow. Its hot here, 35 degrees c today, that’s no weather for an old man to go out in. No weather to keep fresh seafood cold either, but that was my task. I’ll make garlic prawns which always go down well. In spite of my protests there will be oven action tomorrow, the prawns, or shrimp as you might call them John, need half an hour in a hot place other than my bed.

Cooking is what this story has become about. Earlier this afternoon a knock at the door forced me to my feet and down the hall walking on their sides. The blisters seem to always grow on the bottoms. Somehow I knew who would be there, it’s happened a few times before. The next door neighbour bearing gifts, which are great, and the gesture is appreciated. But... isn’t there often one of those? But, the neighbour works at a vegetable market, he gets to bring home fresh produce by the carton. A handy neighbour to have you might say John, except for one thing. Somehow my wife gave them the impression that we absolutely love fresh Mangoes.

Don’t know how that happened and don’t really care, it’s too hot for inquisitiveness. The bottom line is we have a case of beautiful ripe Mangoes sitting there on the kitchen counter. None of us can stand Mangoes. I’ve experienced food problems before, such as when my nuts were between a rock and a hard place. Food problems seem to be my problems, no one else takes any notice unless there just happens to be nothing to eat.

The first two cases of Mangoes we received from my generous neighbour, eventually found homes with friends around town, this is a hot holiday season, and friends are keeping low with doors shut and air-conditioners on. Mango Christmas is going to be my problem alone.

I took a photo with my new Canon camera John, the one purchased with as much stealth as I could muster. The wife will find out, but I figured that this would be a two month silent treatment infraction, I can live with that. Mangoes are incredibly handsome fruit, as you can see from the almost in focus photo. What the hell do you do with Mangoes?

I thought about the little store around the corner, I’m sure if I approached them they would sell them for me. The fruit shop in the mall has them at $2.98 each, I noticed last time this happened. No good though, the neighbour is sure to recognise his Mangoes when he goes in tonight, as all husbands are doomed to do on Christmas Eve. No I’m going to have to make something. I hope Google has the answer to my problem.

This time I searched the first site Google suggested, bingo, hot day equals Mango Sorbet! Most of the work will be in the refrigerator. Twenty minutes prep time plus some hours in the arctic, my fridge is struggling with the heat but we have another fridge to threaten it with if it goes on strike.

I’ll make the sorbet tonight, just one problem to overcome. None of us can stand Mangoes.

By the way John, the Creeping Bentgrass CDs arrived. Wish I could have found something “Billy Fury” to have sent Moya. Have a good one.

JAWhite
December 2009                                                   Return To Main Page     

Sorbet photo by Sue Ferris (copyright info)
Mango photo by proud Canon owner. 

Christmas Shopping Erotica

I would never have expected to visit a shopping center at this time of the year. For me shopping has always been Gods punishment for those who couldn’t organize others to do the dirty work. I really don’t know why I feel this way about something most people seem to enjoy, perhaps some childhood trauma. Six-year-old boy found in toy store after closing, mother says, “I thought his Dad had him”. Dad says “who?”

We all have to face unpleasant duties at sometime in our life, my time had come. Excuses dismissed as unacceptable, having had no time to prepare I had offered the first that came to mind, I guess sore feet is a pretty lame excuse, pardon the pun. Within 20 minutes we were in the car, the environmentally friendly shopping bags neatly folded on the back seat had no idea of the torture they were in for. Of course her car needed fuel, what else could I expect. This car has the turn signal on the wrong side by the way. I hate driving the Mondeo, on sunny days the wipers going when I switch them on instead of the turn indicator, is rather embarrassing.

I like the summer, the southern hemisphere has its’ pluses as Christmas falls in the middle of “young ladies in less clothes” season. Looking is harmless, as long as the look is disguised as checking out the surroundings, and no further gestures, sounds or comments are made. As we drove into the service station I noticed a black convertible at a nearby pump. I like black cars, being a convertible as well, gave me reason to stare.

Returning to the car from paying the ransom, I felt the wife’s stare before I saw it. Head tilted upward, both eyebrows raised and pursed lips in a straight line, the punctuation mark being the crossed arms, 9 out of 10 for formidable looks. Raised upturned hands and a puzzled expression was my only reply to her nonverbal accusation. I must have done something wrong. “How embarrassing! Could you make it anymore obvious?” I heard that through the closed window, waiting until I’d seated myself, I said, “What?” This was the start of a day long trial of the innocent, based on purely circumstantial evidence.

To my surprise, there evidently was a young lady in shorts and a bikini top seated in the convertible. “I was looking at the car!” don’t know why I couldn’t keep the smile of surprise off my face as I said that; she immediately took that as an admission. My voice two octaves higher than normal didn’t help. The only sound in the car as we pulled into the mall was the wipers signaling another turn.

We got a space only just out of sight of the entrance, oh my aching feet. At least the atmosphere would be warmer in the air-conditioned mall than it had been in the car. My wife and I have been married for 35 years, that kind of longevity only comes from commitment and paying attention to each other. Sometimes we know each other’s needs and wants without having to be asked. There are times however when, something just creeps in below the radar. Apparently the new jeans my wife was wearing did just that.

We had only walked about a quarter mile after entering the building when, one of the million or so women there touched my wife’s arm and said “Congratulations dear.” Thinking someone she knew was going to keep us talking forever; I looked into a shop window at some clothes wondering when it would all end.

The sharp elbow dug into my back ended it soon enough. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she hissed. I had no idea what she meant and said so, wrong wrong wrong. “You don’t even look at me do you?” “What do you mean”, I asked, meekly. With some residual anger and oddly some obvious pride she explained. Her new jeans still had the size sticker attached to the leg. On putting them on that morning she had viewed the front and of course her butt in the mirror as women do, but not the legs. The lady who took her arm was congratulating her on achieving the size 10s she had on. I have no idea what size the women her age normally wear; she always seems okay to me, when I look.

Only three or four steps later she demanded to know why I had been looking into a lingerie store window. I hadn’t really noticed, but I was beginning to wise up, “since you’ve lost weight you’ll need new girl stuff” simple, quick and complimentary I thought. She replied, “Don’t count on it.”

By now the long day was into afternoon, to my horror schools were out. Kids everywhere, loud, little people, since I live in a young area the families there are young as well. The cinema had just finished, Dorothy the Dinosaur or some such was showing. It was like a Grand Prix start, young mothers with baby carriages racing to reach whatever objective was next on their lists. I think each generation is getting better looking than the previous.  Most of these racers looked more like the young ladies who hold the umbrellas than drivers.  I commented to the wife that pushing carriages seemed to keep them fit. I didn't quite miss her reference to my waist as I dodged a baby Bugatti.

Some of those women were headed for the photographers, the ones who always set up in malls during holiday season. They take photos of the kids and babies in cute little settings which always look great, at least to the mom. I like photography; recently I had been talking about a new camera, and had been checking on prices of equipment. Being Christmas the young lady photographer was dressed as a Santa helper; love those little red fur trimmed skirts and the hats as well.

As we passed I noticed she was using a Canon camera, similar to one I had my eye on.  I mumbled to myself, “great tripod’. This day keeps getting longer I thought, as the wife swung around scowling at me.  I added an up-ward inflection in my reply, "What?"  Good thing I didn't mention her fantastic lenses.

JAWhite                                            Photo By: Cutiepie  Flickr Photo                                                                 Return To Main Page

A Place to Eat, On Christmas Eve

People sometimes happen to look at this web page without having had the intention of doing so. Usually they arrive after choosing from Google suggestions, in answer to a question posed for reasons we only have hints of. I’ve seen searches that reach this page, as vague and distantly related as “car rental in San Antonio”. I once wrote a short piece on San Antonio, I was born there, but that was a long time ago, both the story and my birth. To wax a little philosophical, we all search for something, sometime in our lives, corny right? Try asking Google the meaning of life, hope you like Monte Python.

The question posed that brought me to my keyboard today is straight forward, but leaves me wondering. Perhaps I have an overactive imagination gland; seemingly inconsequential things send my mind racing like a mouse on a treadmill. These floods of thought occasionally end in clear conclusions but, not always, the mouse never gets there in the end.

The question put to Google was “places to eat fargo nd christmas eve”. I assume people don’t eat fargo, so I translated this as “Places to eat in Fargo North Dakota on Christmas Eve”. I’m familiar with Fargo to a small extent. I came from a medium/small town of around 100,000 people, and I like the movie of that name. Towns this size can be fantastic places to live, but also a little depressing to visit, been there, done that. By the way, none of the movie was shot in Fargo.

This is where the imagination kicks in. I immediately pictured a lonely traveller trying to get home for Christmas, but trapped in Fargo by the severe snow storms currently crossing America. Safe at home and needing something to do on Christmas day, I began imagining the story behind the question. The dilemma I often face broke into a smile again, as it seems prone to do. How do I turn a potentially heart-warming or even sad story into one with some humour in it, but in less than two thousand words?

I like to write with a tongue in cheek, preferably my own, at least until I find one attached to someone better looking, oh God....anyway. The answer I came up with was not to write the story I wanted at all, but to explore variations. This might offer some funny for the story, or, since its Christmas day a little sadness for me, don’t you think? Back to our cold and lonely traveller.

Father O’Brien un-wrapped the last of the cookies he had brought from the Nativity Catholic Church dinner. Still amused by the coincidence of the name, he smiled, fancy, a church with that name giving a free Christmas Eve dinner for lonely and homeless people. His parish in Sioux Falls couldn’t match that. If only he’d taken the time to eat for himself he thought swallowing the last cookie and sliding into the narrow bus seat. The driver, looking at his watch for the third time in as many minutes shook his head while reaching for the microphone, he didn’t like delays especially when 300 miles from home and on Christmas Eve. “Ladies and gentlemen” he said with no joy in his voice, “the snow storm...” Father O’Brien’s more than ample stomach growled with annoyance, or was it hunger?

Some potential funny there, perhaps. A priest, big waistline, from out of town, a bus driver in the same situation. Now, if those cookies had been made by old Miss Wilfred who firmly believed in cannabis for medical purposes. Where else can I go that’s different? Romance, murder, horror, I’m sure if I tried hard enough they’d all be good for a laugh.

Deadlines only frighten writers who have something to lose, Sara reminded herself as the keyboard stopped clacking. “This is ridiculous” she said aloud, “I’m a food critic for god’s sake’. Her editor would have the column when it was ready, she thought while voicing her true feelings, “bulimic bitch”.  She could feel Henrys presence in the room as she moved toward the window. His absence emphasised by the tiny things he seemed to have left behind..... “Christmas just isn’t the same” he said from the dark corner behind her..... Okay, what do we have here? Romance, perhaps murder, a ghost?, the bulimic bitch could have been (or still be) having an affair with Henry.

Maybe I’m wrong and I don’t need to write funny into everything. It’s just that to me, funny seems more... fun.

There was another Google search on my site today, “something christmassy to laugh at” Why would this person need something Christmassy to laugh at I wondered. To me the question sounds more like a prayer, what could drive a person to offer one to Google?

The joy of the Christmas season had held this family together for many years. Her tears seemed to fall as slowly as snowflakes; the frosted window reflecting her face and the fires warm glow. A loud burp from the room behind her was reminder enough that the men in the Graviano family expected action from the entertainer, not melancholy. She pulled on the huge floppy shoes and adjusted her red rubber nose... Got to be some funny in there somewhere, or maybe, there doesn't have to be after all.

The Nativity Catholic Church is at 1825, 11th Street South, Fargo North Dakota. The Christmas Eve dinner and party for people spending Christmas alone was a success, I hope. The dinner and party was also held at Olivet Lutheran Church on University Drive. Both Google queries mentioned above are true.

JAWhite                                     Photo by me, Canon camera still working
December 2009
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Solo Around the World

Off and on over the last month I’ve been reading the blog written by Jessica Watson, she’s the 16 year old Brisbane Australia girl sailing solo around the world. I’m interested in what she has to say about each day as it passes. Apart from the islands she sails by as she moves forward, how much is there to see? Even the islands can only be described from a distance since she’s doing the trip non-stop, and un-assisted. So far her writing has been interesting and not overly repetitive, you can tell that she’s still excited and looks forward to the adventure of each day.

The round the word solo thing has been done before, as to youngest, I remember reading in the National Geographic Magazine about an American guy, around 16 years old like Jessica, who did it quite a few years ago. His boat was called Dove, a small sailboat like Jessica’s. Being about the same age then, I was fascinated. I might be wrong but I don’t think he did it totally un-assisted,  and he did stop along the way. In fact he took four years and got married while out there. Then there was Jesse Martin, another Australian who did the tour in 1999 he was around 18 and did it the un-assisted non-stop way.

Overall there are around 250 people who have done the trip, some doing it harder than others, some using shortcuts like the Panama Canal. Short cuts don’t diminish the effort a great deal, or do they. The fact that only a relatively few have done it at all means something, and don’t tell me “too much time on their hands”.

It’s a little different now compared to say 15 years ago. Satellite navigation improvements, vastly better communications, and of course writing a blog at sea requires a computer with wireless internet. Jessica is in daily contact, I’m sure no one would weigh that against her endeavours. Self imposed her prison like environment may be; a quite night at home it’s not.

Seeing the world is something we would all like to accomplish in our lives, from a cruise ship would be fine, it would be relaxing if you could avoid bad weather and children. But non-stop, with no help, alone, small boat, sounds to me like all the fun will start at the end of the trip. To put a perspective on the exercise, the number of people who have been into space now sits at around 450. That’s if you follow the Karman Line measurement, i.e. Space starts at 62.1 miles or 100 kilometres, straight up. The early astronauts did it un-assisted to the same extent as Jessica, but they only spent a few days and were only a few kilometres from dry land.

                                                              
                                                                                                              Photo by NASA
I admire Jessica Watson because at 16, she has know-how, a clear objective, determination, and spirit. It’s not just because she’s young, alone and a girl. I’m sure I could do it, but I get seasick and don’t like fish.

Jessica Watsons Blog                                   Sailboat Photo by Javier Gonzalez 

JAWhite                                               Return to Main Page
December 2009