Can Can Man

I was pondering a container of spaghetti fluid in my cupboard and wondered “why is that can bigger than most of the others in my pantry – then again maybe it was for the car’s brakes? When we eat Italian food in our mud hut, we always put some kind of store-bought red sugary tomato goo all over it  but it usually ruins the CANnoli. Regardless I always seem to end up with just about a quarter of the can left destined for the fridge. You remember those containers don’t you – they are the ones with the botulism black crusty tops that you keep for three weeks just to threaten your family with if pushed too far. 

Conversely, when I spoon chunky soup paste from a condensed can, I am always left wanting for more since there is rarely any left after my Sunday afternoon ‘bean n’ bacon’ spa facial. While the French tend to have more properly sized cans than AmeriCANS, we still need to do something about the way they pronounce Cannes. Regardless of nationality, who in their right mind would pronounce common words and forget to say their ‘S’? In fact you’d have to be sitting ON your can wasting away on some deserted iSland or out of the way place like a Midwest debriS field in ArkansaS or IllinoiS to forget use a perfectly good ‘S’.

Apparently I need to have a CANtankerous chat with whoever’s in charge over in Paris regarding these deeply troubling Can-Can issues. We can start with the proper sizing of people’s cans because clearly I received more than my fair share already. Let me assure you, unless they’re a plumber, nobody is going to want to see my high-kick chorus-line dancing if the ‘junction’ behind my petticoat is showing. Oh well at least I have a ‘Can-do attitude’ but. I don’t know about you, but even if I got a free case of ‘can-DO’ with or without the ‘tude, I wouldn’t eat it. Ok, I’m lying, I WOULD eat it with a leftover Spagh. Sauce chaser … and uh, you can leave the CAN!

Life’s ‘Littlest’ Lesson Learned from big FEETS

On a recent walk, I happened to focus on, and instantly become mesmerized by, my big battleship feet – the Monitor and the Merrimack as my Dad once christened them. Yep those tootsies have rolled off quite a lot of miles over the years hauling my gristle and girth through both the thick, thin & sin in-between. When it comes to your seemingly insignificant, yet admirable, body parts, sometimes you have to just give thanks and stop to smell the roses. Because at least those petals smell a bit better than my pedal-bound Buster Browns and surprisingly you might just learn a valuable though TINY lesson. 

Beyond the horizon here and near to my ‘Horton-sized’ hooves, I also looked lower still to a world down under my ‘skis’ to a far tinier speck of an ant crawling toward me. Now I wonder what that pinhead-sized flea brain was thinking as Mr. fancy antsy-pants piqued my curiosity. Was my Formicidae friend jealous since I’m so tall? After all wouldn’t I be if I were so tiny yet dare parade around beneath a pair of giant city-sized feet with a pointy head akin to that of the ‘Burg Kalifa’s’ (except that I sway more in the wind)?

Well obviously my feet didn’t seem to render respect from the ant since he refused to stop his advance or pay much mind to me at all. Gee, I took the time to notice him, you would think that he could at least return the favor if for no other reason than to be polite? I swayed my arms violently overhead to interrupt the sun’s rays and bathe my aloof six-legged leaf-eater in shadow, but he continued to turn a blind compound eye and ignore me.   

  

Now this won’t do at all because I’m the important one here – or at least to this insolent insect I SHOULD be.  I’m really big, take up lots of space, and can do magical feats like jump up and down spasmodically trying to render envy from an adamant ant. My immense power can focus the sun’s energy with a tilt of my ‘cheaters’ to flush bugs with warmth, cover them in shadow, or  simply ‘end’ life with a thoughtless tippity tap dance between tarsus and toe. 

So why then did such a meaningless and miniscule creature catch my eye at all? Because this tiny ant was single-handedly dragging a handsome bird feather, ten times his mass and a hundred fold his size presumably back to his colony, for what purpose I’ll never know. He didn’t care who you were, what ‘might’ happen around every dark corner, or second guess his every move. He wasn’t influenced by what the other ants were carrying or that their burden was different, more, or less than his own, he simply stayed focused and kept moving that downy quill up the hill. See I told you that you can learn a lot from life’s LITTLEST lessons!

A Crime of FASHION!

Despite my fashion pact with the Devil & buckets of bleach I don’t know my Prada from my pratt. Yes, my blurry idea of style is a baggy pair of off-brand khakis, a pit-stained polo, and socks where the holes don’t show. In my life, I’m not sure when exactly it was that I turned a blind backside to designer duds, but it was probably when I was a mere pup and the only ‘OshKosh B’gosh?!!’ to be reckoned with was a coating on the INSIDE of my diaper. 

I’m not entirely without pride however, so you will not see me on some street corner ‘rolling’ my inebriated brethren for their last pair of tie-dyed tighty-whitey head scarves. No I get my booty armor from Goody-will and the Salivation Army’s finest 79 cents per pound bins. You know, that’s the stuff with the designer label named after my lower intestine - ‘Slightly Irregular’, featuring fashion forward  offerings from the ‘Where’s Waldo’ clothing line.

The other thing I just noticed is that I indeed not only wear the pants n’ girdles in the family during the day but I obviously sleep in them too. Recently I found myself at a beach so I succumbed to donning a pair of clown-colored surfer shorts. I can assure you that bird-blinding white-hot glare was not originating from the sun, but was actually from those tan-less ham hocks I strut around on all day. Who knew that there really is something in the universe more Lilly white than an innocent child’s vanilla milkshake in a snowstorm? 

Ok, despite my face being ‘wanted’ in every post office in America, maybe I’m not really the popular poster-dope of high fashion and tawny good looks like those market magazine supermodels? It’s true, I don’t always put my best foot forward and typically save my high heel strutting and barely-there bikini time for only ‘special’ occasions. Oh I know that seems like an obvious and unbelievable lie … since so many people copy my TRUE fashion ‘cents’ and dress daily in the same casual ‘crud-wear’ that I do!

Golf Goof

Given the spherical similarity of my white knobby noggin and the fact that my forehead is covered in dimples rather than hair, leads most to assume that I am a golf natural. No, like all club-duffer tweens with dreams, my parents sent me to learn the game from a Mini Golf  PRO - but I never knew what he was FORE? That’s because after a lot of time wielding clubs, getting teed off, and slicing balls faster than you can say ‘Eunuch’, I still remained a green teen golfer and that golf pro was still a DWARF.

I’m lying of course since the truth is I rarely write sitting up and I was a far better golfer at 12 than I am now since it’s half past six. Of course even then I left my mark on more than a few trees and mobile homes whether or not I was donning a poorly executed tee shot or a condemned New York Big Gulp.  Still my lack of skill proved handy years later as I applied my ‘time value of money’ big-biz acumen –  if you pay $60 for golf, try to take as many shots as possible to get your money’s worth! 

I also went on to teach my inspiring golf knowledge to the local senior high school women’s team where I could speak of ‘foursomes’ and ‘gimmes’ without going to jail. Honestly who came up with some of these backward golf terms anyway? I think most non-golfer folks would happily go for Air Force ‘bogies’ all day long but might be a tad  upset if you shot birdies and eagles for fun. Also isn’t ‘PUTT-y’ that stuff you spackle your day-old drywall with and getting ‘teed off’ usually happens when the stuff dries out too quickly and you ‘can’t believe it’s not PUTTIER’.

Obviously I have never taken the links very seriously unless they are wrapped in pancakes,  which is a good idea when you’re a ‘golfy goof’ and prefer your SAND WEDGE with ham or turkey and NO mayo. Nobody trusts these golf fanatics anyway because who on earth has ever been to the beach and still believes combining sand with a wedgie was ever a smart idea? I think there’s still room for a ‘water ball’ hacker like me to infuse the sport though, since I always look forward to a perfectly steeped cup of chamomile at ‘TEE’ time!   

Chum-Bucket Bliss

When most people refer to their bucket lists, they are typically pondering far-off in the future lofty luxury vacations or nervy nail-biting nature interactions with possible death as an outcome. Since sadly I tend to encounter those bipolar experiences on a regular, but involuntary basis anyway, my ‘b-list’ is a tad less inspirational. In fact, there’s even an ACTUAL rectangular window-washing bucket on my list to help relieve my squeegee’s embarrassment from getting stuck up in an ordinary round bucket. 

I know the hushed-toned rumors at family events may be true that I am simple minded, but then again I prefer to think of myself as just being lower maintenance and easier to please than most folks. Most loyal dogs will smell anything, play with the same slobbery ball all day, and fetch any old stick as long as it’s wrapped in bacon, so I consider myself in good company. Mutts like me may dream of greener grass from time to time, but true nirvana is nearer when we realize ANY yard can look pretty good with a regular trim and liberal application of OUR OWN fertilizer!

Don’t get me wrong, despite my pedantic preaching I still hold white collared reverence for timely clan-travel and elective extemporaneous exploration. After all, what else are you going to spend all that inheritance on – tacos, taxes, or your basement-bound spawn’s silk sheets and cell phone? So why not look beyond those lengthy lists of improbable future chum-buckety fun and instead focus NOW on your skivvie’s silver lining while they are still warm.

Now I certainly wouldn’t turn my beak up at a chance at an adventuresome Antarctic ice shelf preening and penguin omelette with Popper’s progeny. But that doesn’t mean I should deny my desire for  Denny’s ‘EGGScellent’ burnt offerings just because the feed trough is clearly much closer to my crib. Regardless of the perceived value of the venue, it’s ALWAYS the glue of my crew who makes even the ordinary stuff so special, and really worthy of my burly bulk and TRUE blue buckety bliss!