‘KEYeed OFF'

You know as I get older I always thought I would have had to deal with LESS keys not more of them. When I was a much thinner and harrier Silverback, the more nesting plastic keys I had meant more access to secret spaces and restricted places like the zookeeper’s stash of ‘the good’ bananas and ‘bark’free’ toilet paper! Every suitcase, mailbox, crossword puzzle, city and even PIANOS have KEYS to show off, so I grew up thinking they were cool and ever-empowering.

As time has progressed I have sickened of explaining to hobos that it is the metal KEYS, not coins, jangling in my pocket and ‘NO I have never been happy to see them’. Like children, I started coding my keys with those little colored rubber bonnets that you strap on their heads to quiet them and tell them apart. With the addition of chunky remote car locks, my ‘key wad’ has seemed to grow exponentially larger n’ looser, just at the age when my pants are becoming uncomfortably tighter and smaller.

Now some sadistic marketing whiz has come up with even more fob foibles to foil me. Yes every supermarket, big box store, gas station, and even the libraries are pushing plastic bar-coded club-cards to clutter-up and post claim to my bloated pockets and ever-expanding key chain. Will this mistreatment to cotton and polyester never end – after all I am already blowing-out a bigger GAP in the stretch panel of my manly maternity jeans, even WITHOUT the keys.

I’m sick of thumbing and fumbling through decks of club cards and keys that are all nearly the same size and all look alike. Whatever happened to the dream of having a key-free society where I could lop off a lock of DNA, stare down a retina eye scan, or simply raise up a single finger in disdain to access security accounts and private places? I’m clearly getting too old for lots of locks and their weighty chains of protection. I think I need to retire to a warm, care-free place where there is nothing worth locking up and the pants are ALWAYS optional – the FLORIDA KEYS!   

Double DOOTIE

The other day I was on the hunt for some waxed paper. After venturing to two mega-chain stores and finding none, I pondered that it may be true – BEES like their honey-money but rarely ‘wax on’ about anything else except pollen. Of course I found parchment paper but now my quills were in a bunch and I didn’t have the constitution to buy any. The stores had some napkins, a few brawny bundles of paper towels, but the real news was the GIANT Panda sized pallets of toilet paper.

Considering where it mostly ends up, I am amazed that apparently all other household paper products have literally taken a BACK SEAT to the ‘potty papyrus’. Do people really need to buy truckloads of this stuff now and if so, what’s changed in society since I was a kid? Maybe all those greasy buffet restaurants are finally taking their toll on the country and starting to hit below the beltline too.

 I know the average size of households has dropped but obviously whoever’s left in those houses seem to be ‘dropping’ an awful lot MORE! Maybe the problem is that the manufacturers are rolling only about 4 sheets of paper on a ‘standard’ toilet roll and only marginally more product on the large and super sized rolls. Why do we need all of these roll sizes when everybody’s anatomy is essentially the same anyway and the BOTTOM line is that eventually all of the paper gets used and abused just the same.

I think if we were mainly worried about sheet count then why not sell those industrial size rolls which are the size of my head and then I’ll only need to buy one roll of toilet paper per year. Or better yet let’s just make the sheet size a little wider and continuous like foil or my elusive waxed paper. You don’t see cooks and bakers dumb enough to PRODUCE QUALITY on a 4 inch strip of those products do you so why should I be expected to do it too in the loo? Yeah the cellophane and foil are out for sure, but I’m starting to think those rolls of paper towels are looking like the perfect double-DUTY solution to wipe my cares away not only the kitchen, but in the bathroom as well! 

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!