Wry and Ginger | Seriously Funny Cards | Greeting Cards

As you may have noticed *conspicuous cough* I rather like animals and tend to spend a bit of time thinking about them and their assorted thoughts. *coughs again, looks shiftily to the right panel on the screen*

If you have ever visited the shop *a final pointed look to the shop panel on your right* you may have noticed that there are a few animals that I don’t include in the menagerie, despite their seemingly obvious comic qualities.

I don’t do dogs. (Anyone who snickered just then can leave. Out. ) Those who know me know why, and the rest of you can just wonder.

I resisted cats for a long time because I felt they were just too easy. So damn smug. They are just asking for it and I will be damned if I will do their bidding. There is one set of cat cards in the shop. They sell miserably. Why? Cat people are tight gits? They spend all their money on boxes of wine and Star Trek memorabilia?  I have no idea.

And then there are monkeys. Few animals inspire such deep and abiding giddiness in me. And yes, apes are great too – but COME ON they have nothing on monkeys! NOTHING! Monkeys are, in fact, so out-there freaking marvelous that I don’t think I would ever dream of trying to make them better, or funnier.

But I have no problem documenting how very very badly I want to hang out with them.  Specifically, with macaques. Macaques are the like the Erykah Badu of monkeys – too cool for school, kids.

And so, I give you

MY DREAM VACATION

First to Sulawesi!

Darryl and I contemplate the folly of the wildlife photographer. Later, we made off with his smalls as they dried by the fire. What laughs!

Mr. Johnston, as we called him, supervised the beachside frolics. He didn't take stick off anyone, but always knew the best winkle-picking sites.

Now on to Japan!

Relaxing in the hot springs with the Ken, Alice and young Trevor. Alice was easily distracted by the sight of her neighbor Delores' bright red bottom.

My final day of vacation was spent in quiet contemplation with two total strangers.

Best vacation ever.

Maybe if we just let that out a bit....

Some people are upset with Toronto Star columnist Christopher Hume for saying seemingly unkind things about Halifax, the city in which I live:

“…one wanders around this old maritime city and can’t help but marvel at its urban potential. But first the streets must be reclaimed.

The irony, as always, is that Halifax is its own biggest asset. Compact and connected, it is in good shape for what awaits us after cheap oil. But in a world where monster trucks dominate, these qualities are liabilities. And so Halifax tends to look shabby and under-populated.”

He’s dead on the money. We bring in thousands of tourists,  and should they wander up from the historical harbour front  to the Spring Garden Road area, they often have to pass through Barrington Street and its papered up windows.

Hume also makes a point about Halifax needing to be “…rescued from the car.” Still dead on the money, but with a city council who can’t see their way clear to even a haphazard system of bike lanes, let alone a coherent transportation plan that encourages mass transit, bikes and pedestrians over cars, I wouldn’t hold your breath on that one.

Without rational direction and reasons for businesses to want to be located downtown, the urban core of  Halifax will, at best,  stagnate in its current state. At worst,  the brown paper blight of Barrington will spread.

I love Halifax – a marvelous city with smart, creative and warm residents. I don’t have to live here,  I choose to.  I reside, shop, and socialize almost entirely in the downtown area.  This city is like a beloved friend, and sometimes the best thing you can do for a friend is to tell her that her ass is hanging out of a skirt that no longer fits.

So, hey Halifax, I love you, but we really need to talk about that outfit. It’s just not working any more.

Phooar missus I love scapes. There are a few seasonal foods that make me absolutely giddy when they appear in local shops, and the garlic scape is one. A fragrant aroma and taste like garlic, but with the intensity taken out. They are truly a wonderful thing in the kitchen.  What can you do with a scape, you might wonder…pfft what can’t you do with them??

Chopping scapes with the trusty mezzaluna. Two handed chopping tools are safer for some of us....

Well actually…

1. They are of no use in defending yourself against trendy vampires. It’s just a scape, not a bulb. Stop looking for miracles, tilt your neck and accept that you may be spending eternity sparkling and acting like an angsty, hormonal, pain in the ass 16 yr old. Lucky you.

2. You cannot use them as an adult toy.  I know what you are saying: “Anything, applied with enough vigor and/or repetition can be an adult toy.” Normally that is true, but after exhaustive research and more than a few “focus groups” (at best awkward, at worst involving the authorities*),  I can tell you that is not so.

But you can do many things.  Tonight I got out the mezzaluna (the somewhat frightening instrument in the picture above) and minced some scapes to saute with bacon for an omelette. Pretty marvelous.

Scapes and bacon! Yes, that is a lot of scapes. I live alone, folks.

Scapes are also great for things like soup and pesto, both of which will freeze like a treat – allowing you a little taste of early summer some time later in the year.

Well don’t just sit there…get yourself down to your market and get some scapes!

* And thanks for that Mr. Jorgenson. You could have just taken your $50  and left in a huff, but no we had to go and involve the constabulary.

Here’s a story which every time I tell it to women it causes a reaction of  “OH. MY. GOD.” and when I tell it to men it causes a reaction of “Yeah. For sure.”

Some years ago I used to live in a section of my city that has a fair number of ladies plying their trade on the corners.   These were not the glamorous ladies of Pretty Woman cinderella-tales. They were hardworking ladies who in all likelihood were supporting addictions or other problems with their work.  It’s hard to condemn them – they have reasons and situations often beyond my understanding or experience, but they sure did bring the tone of the neighborhood down. Um, further.    They made it hard for any male pulling up in  a vehicle outside my house, and caused my friend S to have to take her smoke break in the back yard, lest she be mistake for a loitering working lady. (In fairness to the Johns, that coat she had with the big faux fur collar was misleading at best.)

But the ones I found most curious were the morning hookers. The ones on the corners of my largely residential area at 7:30 in the  morning – I’d see them frequently on my way to work.  They puzzled me – I figured they had been out all night, had not made enough and were lingering in hopes of some extra work. But what hope at 7:30 am? Huh you would be surprised. I often saw trucks or cars pull up and around a corner as the ladies hurriedly followed.

When I began dating Mr Wry, I pointed this out to him one morning. “Look at them! Who’d have thought? A.m. hookers doing good business. What kind of guy is trolling for a hooker at 7:30 in the morning???”

Mr Wry looked at me like I was a bit slow.

“It would be easier in the morning,”  he stated, matter of factly,  going on to elaborate:

“If you stay out late to cheat on your wife, she would suspect you were cheating on her. Leave early for the office and you are just a hard working guy who wants to, um, get ahead.”

I stared at him for probably about a full  minute, probably not blinking once.

Morning hookers…who knew?

I awoke Sunday morning to the BF at the bedroom window, looking down at the drive below.

“Oh man! Is that a squirrel the crows are eating?!”

Few words could have me out of bed and at the window faster than those. And damned if he wasn’t right.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/scotiamade/3319234768/in/photostream/

there they were, pecking away at the rather frozen corpse of a somewhat headless squirrel. Had he not been somewhat headless, I could have believed that he possibly had a heart attack and died, then froze stiff. He was just spread eagled, fairly intact save for the hole the crows were pecking into his gut.

Of course, the first thing through my mind was:

“JIMJAM!!!”

followed quickly by “ooh I’m hungry!” which was then buried by another

“JIMJAMMMM!”

I have two backyard squirrels – the inimitable JimJam and his new friend, who I presume to be a lady. Having seen the carnage in my drive,  I spent the better part of the rest of the day staring out the back window,  watching the one lone squirrel running about the back yard in a crazed manner, silently willing a second squirrel to appear.

None did.

I am steadfast, however, in my belief that the remaining squirrel is my JimJam. His friend of late, or late friend, was a bit slower than him, didnt’ know all the best hiding spots and seemed a tad dull. The sort of squirrel who might stick his head under the wheels of a passing car.  Yesterday I saw my lone squirrel emerge from under the BBQ cover, oneo f JimJam’s favourite nut stashes.

So JimJam remains alone, and frankly somewhat nonplussed in appearance…his possible mate squashed and eventually carried off by the crows. It’s mating season for squirrels, so I can only hope that his handsome (and somewhat fat) appearance, coupled with his tremendously attractive home territory (thanks to my willingness to go broke on peanuts) will lure him in another squeeze.
We can only keep our fingers crossed. Unless, of course, we are my neighbors