Mr. Observant Man

Mr. Observant Man needed corn starch. Argo corn starch. It comes in a bright yellow box and is located on the top shelf, mid-way on the north side of the baking aisle.

Mr. Observant Man could find Argo corn starch blindfolded. It’s that easy. Six giant steps, reach left and stretch and corn starch is at hand and in hand. Done.

Mr. Observant Man should have been blindfolded because with his eyes wide open he couldn’t find the Argo corn starch to save his hide.

Bright yellow box. Top shelf. Mid-way. North side of baking aisle.

Mr. Observant Man stared and he stared. He stared until his eyeballs dried out and shrank two sizes. No yellow boxes in sight. No corn starch! Argo, where for art thou?

Then, suddenly, without warning a bright PINK Argo corn starch box leapt out at Mr. Observant Man and conked him on the head.

“Wow,” said Mr. Observant Man, “a flying Argo corn starch box. And, hey, it’s PINK .”

Whaaaa? PINK ?

The conk on the head threw Mr. Observant Man into full Observant Mode and as he gazed around the store all sorts of PINK things grabbed his attention. Soup, candy, cereal, breath mints and products of all shapes and sizes screamed at him in PINK .

What did it mean?

Mr. Observant Man purchased several PINK products and made his way home to study them. He Googled Susan G. Komen and discovered this.

Nancy G. Brinker promised her dying sister, Susan G. Komen, that she would do everything in her power to end breast cancer forever.
In 1982, that promise became Susan G. Komen for the Cure and launched the global breast cancer movement. Today, Komen for the Cure is the world's largest grassroots network of breast cancer survivors and activists fighting to save lives, empower people, ensure quality care for all and energize science to find the cures. Thanks to events like the Komen Race for the Cure, we have invested nearly $1 billion to fulfill our promise, becoming the largest source of nonprofit funds dedicated to the fight against breast cancer in the world.

Corporations who support Susan G. Komen for the Cure pledge large sums of money and show their support for finding a cure for breast cancer by displaying their products in PINK .

Mr. Observant Man learned a valuable lesson and pledged to do his best to help. After the conk on the head he became

Mr. Observant Man .

Leopard

Installed.

So far, so good.

Introducing "The Hulk"

Leopard arrives Friday and with it Time Machine. Finally, Zero Touch backup for the entire house.

Right there on The Hulk. All backup, all the time.

I need a bumper sticker: Ask Me About My Terabyte

Said and Done

"Hey, did you run some laundry?"

It was an innocent question full of promise.

It could have meant, "Hey, you ran some laundry and folded it and put it away! That was nice!"

Or, "Hey, thanks for running the laundry! You're so thoughtful."

Or, "Hey, I didn't expect you to run some laundry! What a nice surprise."

In fact, simple questions often require long, drawn-out answers and I'm always looking for a way to cut to the chase and move on.

So, when the kids asked, "Where does air come from?"

I would answer, "Ask Mom. She knows."

Ninety percent of all questions can be answered with those four words. Here, though, I was stuck. Yes, I had run some laundry but it was only my camping gear smelling of bug spray, sunscreen, smoke and whatever chemicals my feet produce. I'm sure they have scientific names, but they are collectively known as Ewww-What's-That-Smell.

To the question, "Hey, did you run some laundry?" I should have answered, "Yes, I did. I sorted all the laundry and I have two more loads to run, but I did my camping stuff first to protect your delicate nose."

That's what I should have said; wordy, but correct.

What I actually said was this:

"Yeah, I ran my stuff."

As soon as I heard my words with my own ears, my brain all the while screaming, "Noooooooooooo!" I knew I was doomed.

A deafening silence followed. There were footsteps in the distance and the sound of a door closing. With emphasis. The conversation, such as it was, was over.

Mouth said, "Sorry, Brain, I guess I let you down. Again. What do we do now?"

After a short pause Brain said, "We die."

I sloped off to the laundry room and got the dark wash going. Might as well finish it up, I told Brain, it's going to be a long night.

George's Grill

This is a real American hamburger made in a real American diner, the kind of place that has been around forever and, hopefully, forever more. It's the kind of place your parents went to when they were young. The kind of place you went to. And the kind of place you're kids will go to. Good food, atmosphere, reasonable prices and a guy named George behind the counter.

George has been working this joint for 47 years and by now he knows the ropes. All of them.

The ropes include "plate" lunches, served on a real plate and set on the menu from Monday through Friday.

Monday is meatloaf with mashed potatoes and green beans.

Tuesday is spaghetti with garlic bread and a green salad.

Wednesday is fried chicken with cut corn and apple pie.

Thursday is roast beef with gravy, baked potato and salad.

Friday is pork chops with apple sauce and cole slaw.

I chose a cheeseburger with the works: lettuce, tomato, pickle and onion. With a side of fries. Fresh, not frozen. And iced tea, shaken not stirred.

George busied himself around the kitchen making sure everything was being served to his standard, and he worked the cash register.

After our lunch the waitress asked us if we had saved room for dessert. By a strange stroke of fate we had, and ice box pie was made to order to fill that room.




Ice box pie. Made in George's kitchen daily. Never a slice remaining at the end of the day, according to George. An ice box pie consists of a flakey crust filled with a pudding or fruit filling and topped with meringue. So good. I was half-way into it before I remembered to take a picture!

And, here's George, the owner, cook and chief bottle washer.

George said, "Haven't I seen you before? You've been here before."

"It's been a while, George, like 43 years. I was probably a bit skinnier."

"Yeah," George said, "I remember. Your hair wasn't so grey."

And he was absolutely right.




George's Grill
175 E. Kings Highway
Shreveport, Louisiana

Milk in a Pouch

I just don't know what to make of this. Milk in a plastic pouch.

Kangaroo milk?

Happy Birthday, Kink!

Kink the Kat turns One Year Old on his official birthday today. Based on fang size the vet estimated Kink's birthday to be sometime in early October so we picked the 1st as the grand day.

Happy Birthday, Kink, and many more. On channel 4.

Kink, aka the Kinkster, aka Kink-O, aka Kinkers, aka Kinkilito, aka Kinky Dinky has taken the celebrations in stride by sleeping all day. No doubt, there is an all-night party planned and I'm not invited, thank you very much, Kink. Really.

At the grand old age of 1 Kink has outgrown the Slashing and Gnashing Phase which means I'll no longer have to explain the Little Mermaid band-aids.

Kink's favorite sport is Knocking Things off of Other Things and I think he's going pro. However, if you like clean surfaces in your house then Kink's your guy. He can clear a table in a few minutes using a variety of techniques.

There's the Casual Bat, a slight nudging of the object until it falls off the edge.

There's the Two-Pawed Swipe that not only sends objects to the floor but at a great distance.

There's the Full-Frontal Slide that involves a high-speed skid for maximum disruption (especially effective with newspapers).

And there's the Pick-n-Toss that is a double action lift and throw, almost a ballet.

We're happy that the Kinkster brings some excitement to the house and we're looking forward to his second year during which he discovers, hopefully, that's it's not cool to party at 3am.