Hunting for Something to Write About

Thought for the day:  The word 'vegetarian' comes from the ancient Indian word for 'lousy hunter'.

Surprise! I don't usually post on Mondays, but what the heck. The Dream Destination blog hop will be kicking off on Thursday, so just for this week, we'll go with Monday and Thursday instead of Tuesday and Friday. (I'm such a rebel.)

But what to write, what to write...

Since deer hunting season is well under way, how about a little something about hunting? Anybody in your family into that? Smarticus used to go every year, but it's been a long time since he's had the urge to crawl out of a nice warm bed to traipse around in the woods or to sit up in a tree stand freezing his arse off at the butt crack of dawn. And that's just fine and dandy with me.

Not everyone is a natural hunter...

Granted, hunting isn't for everyone. Our younger son used to go, too, but for him, it was more about the camping, male bounding, and communing with nature. It all but required dynamite to blast him out of the bed at home, but he could hardly wait to hit the woods at dark-thirty in the morning... but I don't think he ever pointed his gun at a single animal.

Critters are pretty darned smart. As best as I can remember, Smarticus only went dove hunting once. He and a neighbor went on opening day of dove season. They spent allllll day long walking and looking, but didn't see hide nor feather of a single dove until they pulled into our driveway. Then they saw about fifty smirking doves safely sitting on the telephone lines between our houses ... thumbing their beaks at them.

Yes sirree, animals are plenty smart, but not quite as smart as some people think. Like the gal who thought somebody should move the deer crossing sign at the side of the road to a different location. She figured there was so much traffic on that part of the highway, the deer would be much safer if they were directed to cross at another spot.

You can hardly blame this ol' geezer for doing his hunting in the grocery store. (That's where I catch my fish these days, too.) After all, roughing it in the woods isn't nearly as much fun once the aches and pains take up residence, and I suspect the thrill of taking a whizz in the woods is inversely proportional to the number of times per cold night it's necessary to get out of a nice warm sleeping bag to do so.

But now this... THIS... just might work.







I enjoy target-shooting, but when it comes to shooting at an animal, I suspect I'd be about as useless as Bill Engvall's wife. She wanted to share more activities with her husband... but I don't think hunting was what she had in mind. Kinda reminds me of the joke: I just got a new rifle for my wife. It was the best trade I ever made...

So how about you? Been hunting for Christmas gifts at the mall? (I tell ya, some of those shoppers are real animals, aren't  they...?)

                                     Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

All's Fayre

Thought for the day:  Never go to a doctor whose office plants have died.  [Erma Bombeck]

Trust me. I'm your doctor.

Once, I made the foolish mistake of letting my husband talk to the doctor by himself. Yeah, I know. Dumb, huh? Weeks later...  after he'd painted our entire fence, gone bowling with his pals, and shot innumerable games of pool in our basement... I heard the doctor tell him it was okay to get out of bed now.

Doggone it, I let it happen again.

This past Friday, Smarticus had a minor in-office procedure done, and rather than sitting around waiting for him, he suggested I get a flu shot. You guessed it. He was in and out long before I got the darned shot. He ended up talking to the doctor by himself, and then strolling over to wait for me.

Told me he was supposed to take it easy over the weekend. Said he could take Tylenol or drink adult beverages if he experienced any pain.

The next day, he only worked in his garage for ... a little while. And he only ran ... a couple errands. Said he felt great, and we should go spend a...  little time at the British Car Fayre. No point in arguing with him. I grabbed my camera, and off we went.

The British Car Fayre, held in our little town every year, features just about every kind of British-made vehicle you can imagine, and plenty of them. Plenty of people to see them, too. There were some four-legged visitors, too. The owner of these little guys assured me that they aren't at all spoiled.

There were a number of the expected motorcycles there, as well as this rather unusual one. Best we could figure, it was like a rat rod of the two-wheeled variety.

One area was filled with Land Rovers, but this was the only one with a tent on top. Looks like a pretty neat way to go camping, doesn't it?

I say... does anyone recognize this dapper fellow?

The old MGs are nice, but dontcha LOVE the old house?

The show isn't ALL about cars, ya know. There's gotta be music, too

Lots of people seemed to enjoy the fish and chips prepared out front of the pub, but I couldn't get past the overpowering smell of cooking oil. (The malt vinegar sure smelled good, though.)

A Morgan, my favorite. These things absolutely ooze class.

Would you believe this little three-wheeler is a Morgan, too? Not sure, but I think it's called a Triking.

Did you realize the ultra-sleek Lotus is a British-made car? I must admit, I didn't.

This is a very early model Lotus race car.

Alas, the flux capacitor was missing.

This is a 1928 Riley Brooklands. (I never heard of them before, either.)

We were just starting to look at the Roll Royces when the sky opened up. I am talking RAIN. Serious rain. We had a big umbrella. In the car, of course. And a couple ponchos. Also in the car. So, like a lot of other people, we slipped into one of the shops until the worst of it passed.






When it rains, I let it.  [113-year old man, when asked for the secret to his longevity.]

After we got home, Smarticus started talking trash about maybe going out to his garage to do a little more work.

So, what can I say?  I had little choice.

Doggone it, it was time for me to take action, people! I decided right there and then the only way I was gonna make his butt take it easy was to ... have a party! That's right. Trip the light fantastic, baby. Invite some friends, fill the cooler with beer and ice, and put the cooler right there beside his spot on the love seat...

                                                  He agreed. Enthusiastically, too.

                                                And we invited a hand-picked thirty-six.

I'm not sure how much fun they had, but it's fayre to say we had a fine time. And he... took it easy.

                               Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Don't Mess with My S'Mores

Thought for the day:  Camping is nature's way of promoting the motel business.  [Dave Barry]

Why didn't Noah swat 'em when he had the chance?

Some people love camping. Some people don't. Some people think there's nothing better in the world than spending time close to nature; others think close to nature means going barefoot, and roughing it means the TV in their motel room is smaller than their set at home.

I used to like camping. Probably wouldn't be my first choice now, but I have plenty of fond memories of camping as a kid, and of camping with our kids when they were growing up. (Is there ANYTHING that smells even half as good as bacon cooking outside in the early morning?)

Sure, camping has its downsides. Like the  mosquitoes that consider bug spray nothing more than a tasty finishing sauce, the tenacious horse flies that have to be pried off with a crow bar, and the sneaky little ticks that have such a talent for  burrowing into the most unpleasant places. And then, of course, there's always the inconvenience of  having to trek to the port-a-potty in the pitch black middle of the night.

Never wipe with leaves that look like this!

Or worse, finding your kids blithely playing in a pretty little patch of poison ivy.

 But the state of California offers a whole new breed of things for you to worry about when you take the family camping. (Or do just about anything else.)

Forget worrying about a bear attack.

Don't worry about one of those giant trees smashing your RV.

Maybe what you should be worrying about is that nasty campfire. Forget about running out of marshmallows. Don't worry about finding sticks long enough to hold wieners over the fire. (sigh) Worry about the fire. 

     Because the fine state of California says campfires are hazardous to your health.

Proposition 65, AKA the California Safe Drinking Water and Toxic Enforcement Act of 1986, was enacted to protect the state's citizens and their drinking water from chemicals known to cause cancer and birth defects. An admirable goal, to be sure.

However, the law requires the governor to release a list of these toxic substances at least once a year, and businesses must notify the public about the presence of any of those substances. Still sound pretty admirable?

The problem is, signs like the one above now pepper California like termite holes in a rotten piece of wood. Certainly in campgrounds, because chemicals associated with things like campfires and RV holding tanks may be hazardous to your health. And at gas stations ... because ya know, there may be ... um... gasoline... there. Probably in hospitals, too, because cleaning products are also on the list. The latest list of toxic chemicals fills twenty-two pages, and includes well over 800 substances, so the signs are becoming so ubiquitous, it's questionable whether they have any meaning anymore, other than as fodder for potential lawsuits. 

Posting signs to warn us of the obvious makes about as much sense as a label on a can of peanuts saying Warning: Contains peanuts. I mean ... have we really become that stupid? I certainly hope we are much more competent than our governments seem to think we are.

So, bottom line, if I ever do go camping again, it sure won't be in California. Campfires are much more friendly here in Georgia.  (And who wants to go camping if you can't fix s'mores with a clear conscience?)

You know, I'm thinking our house probably wouldn't pass the California sniff test. I mean, we have two cats. ('Nuff said there.) I painted the walls last year ... I actually scrub the floors... and cook. Don't forget the evils of nail polish, acetone, super glue, spray paint, and who knows how many other things most of us use regularly. How 'bout you? Do you need one of those signs at your house, too? (Sheesh.)

                            Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other. 

Oh, and a thanks and a tip of the hat to my amateur radio pals Barry and Judi for suggesting this as a possible blogpost topic.