Saturday. Sometimes I have the day to do absolutely nothing, nada, nudding at all. On those days, I might sleep in, get up, shower, get a coffee, have a leisurely breakfast, and then maybe cruise around to the local hardware store or Costco or wherever looking for an excuse to spend money I don’t have.

But today… well that was a different story. Last week I started staining my fence and deck and I was set to finish that this week. My plan was to get up early, go for a haircut and then I was going to stain all the uprights on my deck and give the floor of the deck a quick once over with a roller as a second coat. Then I was going to go over to my neighbours and to some odd jobs for them… They needed some bracing installed along the bottom part of their fence and they wanted to have landscape ties installed around the flower beds out back.

That was the plan. A good honest handyman’s day’s work, a cool shower, and a good feeling that I didn’t waste my Saturday. But that’s not what happened. Not exactly.

Last evening my son asked if we could go to a couple of car lots in the morning looking at cars before he went to work. Sure, I said. I’ll just inject that little task into my plan… perhaps I’ll postpone the haircut. We left this morning around 9:30, picked up one of his friends and headed to the Dodge dealership. From there we went to Tim Hortons to get a coffee and went to the Hyundai dealer. After a little looking around and kicking tires, I decided we would head home. It was 11:00. I dropped my son’s friend off at his place of employ, and headed home. We were almost there, when we saw something cross the road. From a distance, it looked like some sort of bird, but it looked a little different, somewhat out of proportion. As we got closer, we realized it was a duckling. A single solitary duckling, in the middle of a subdivision. Nothing but concrete, asphalt, and lawns. No ponds, no marsh, and no sign of momma duck and/or a string of other little ducklings. This little guy was stranded. So, my son got out and chased the little bugger down and scooped him up.

“Can we keep him?”, said my 17-year-old son. Uhm. I don’t think so. It’s a duck. We’ll be calling the SPCA for some advice. So, that’s what we did. The SPCA took my name and number and said someone would call us back. In the meantime, my son laid the duck down on the back deck and it saw an escape opportunity and made a beeline for the edge of the deck and leaped off the edge to freedom under the neighbour’s deck. While my son was chasing it down, the forest ranger’s office called. (All I could think was, I don’t want to tell this guy that, in the three minutes since I left my name with the SPCA, the duckling outsmarted us and got away.) I explained to the dude how and where we found this little bird and asked for advice on what to do with him next… something that didn’t have “a l’orange” in the answer. He said to bring it to the nearest pond, perhaps Centennial Park, and set it free. Perhaps it will merge in with another family, grow up to be a strong healthy adult duck, and come back someday to rescue us from a fire or something.

So, off we went to the park. It was 11:30 by now. On our way there, I remembered that there was a big car show at Centennial Park. The Atlantic Nationals were in town and 1600+ antique and scooped up cars were going to be strewn about all around the park. Shit. That’s ok, we’ll go to Jones Lake. It’s a nice lake with walking trails all around it. Super.

Then suddenly, my cell phone rang. It’s my neighbour, Rennie, calling from my house. Hey Steve, where are you? He explained that he and his wife, Lorraine, had gone to Kent Building Supplies to pick up a couple of sheets of lattice, and couldn’t get them into his car. So, he left Lorraine at the hardware store and came back to see if I would go back down with him in my van to pick up the lattice. Oh, and hurry up please, Steve, cuz Lorraine is pissed at me. Ok, Rennie. I’ll be just a few minutes. But why don’t you go pick up Lorraine and bring her home. Kent will hold the lattice until we get there.

So, we arrive at Jones Lake. Yup, it does have some really nice walking trails around it, but not much of an easy access to the edge of the lake, at least not where the other ducks are hanging out. We drove up a little side street bordering the lake, got out with our little boxed duckling, walked to the edge of the tree line and peered into the woods lining the lake, looking for an easy path to the shore.

“Excuse me. Sir. Can you come over here?” I turned around, and there’s an old lady on her front porch across the street, waving me over. Ok… now I’ve got to explain to this old lady that we are just rescuing a duckling, not looking for a place to dump a body, or worse yet, potential recyclables. Turns out, she simply wanted me to take her flower box off her front rail, get two different pairs of pliers, and attempt to re-bend her wire flowerbox holder so it wouldn’t lean too much. “My husband is disabled, so I figured I’d watch for the first handsome young man to come along and ask him to help.” So, did you get tired of waiting? I fixed her flower box wire-thingy, but not before I skinned half the skin off several knuckles. It’s so hard for me to slam my fist into a metal railing after a vice-grip slips and NOT curse and swear.

After some chatting and several “thank yous” I was back on my mission to free the duck. We found a place that brought us to the water fairly easily, but it was nowhere near any other ducks. This place will have to do. It was after 12:00 and my son had to get to work by 1:30. That same duck, who, when placed on our deck bolted like he was racing in the Kentucky Derby, just sat in the box when we tipped it on its side within three feet of certain freedom. After about 5 minutes of gentle coaxing, the duckling was on his way. Once he splashed into the water and swam just off shore, he chirped gleefully as if to say, “Thank you, nice gentlemen. Hey, where the quack is my mommy?”

Now, I still need to rescue two more ducklings. The ones who attempted to fit two 4 by 8 sheets of lattice into a Hyundai Sonata. I rush home and Rennie is waiting for me on the front step. He’d gone and retrieved Lorraine already. “So, Rennie, I don’t understand why Lorraine would be mad at you.” Well, Steve, I tried to tell her before we left that the lattice wouldn’t fit. But she said we got it in your van before and the stuff bends fairly easily. “Don’t tell me, Rennie, that you used the I-told-you-so words…?” Well, kinda. “Rennie, Rennie, Rennie. You are 65 years old, and married more than 30 years. Don’t you know that you have a choice? You can be right… or you can be happy. Never both at the same time.” Sigh. Yeah, I know.

We went to the hardware store, picked up the lattice and came back home. I sat, had a glass of Pepsi, and headed out to start my busy day. 1:30 pm. Start by busy day? Start? Then why am I so exhausted already?

So, I stayed out in the yard, staining my deck until after 7:00 pm. It’s now, Sunday morning, and I’ll have to go out and start the rest of my Saturday list.

As I looked in the mirror this morning, I thought two things. I wish it had rained this weekend and I need a haircut.

I never noticed if I’d ever used this word, or even if I ever heard it regularly in conversation. Sure. Seems like a pretty ordinary word. At its base, its meaning is fairly positive. [Physically secure and certain, non-failing, reliable; "Yes, of course".]

Then why does my wife get pissed off when I use that word?

“You wanna change the laundry over?” Sure. “Grrrr… I hate when you use that word”.

“You wanna go out for a drive?” Sure. “Grrrr… if you don’t want to go, then just say so!”

I think it’s because there are connotations of informality in its use, and that informality implies a diminishing of the certainty of the commitment derived by the dictionary meaning of the word. Does that sound smart? Sure it does.

But what the heck. I figured I’d try to stop using the word. It’s not such a big deal, is it? Surely, I can manage that. I found myself using the word involuntarily and then tagging on a little extra to reinforce my commitment to be certain. “Sure… uhm… I’d love to clean the bathrooms.” “Sure… er… I’d be happy to start the BBQ now.” All those extra words were starting to piss me off.

Then I started noticing how often the word gets used. Everyone apparently uses the word on a regular basis and I’m pretty sure that they use it in a pretty positively intended way. “Hey, wanna go to the park?” Sure. “Yo, dude, can you skateboard on someone else’s parking lot?” Sure. “Mister, is it ok if I clean your windshield?” Sure.

And guess what? Wifey uses the word quite often herself. AND she uses it in a mostly agreeable way. Sure means “ok” to her. But that’s not how I take it. Not anymore! I choose to take it in a negative way.

“Hey, darling-wife-o-mine, you wanna go for a coffee?” Sure. “Jeez, you don’t have to be so saucy. I was only asking a question!”

“Hey buddy, can you put the receipt in they bag?” Sure. “Jeez… can you believe how rude that guys was?”

Heh heh… I’m such an asshole.

Am I having fun? Sure. Is my wife? I’m not so sure.

Sure.

Where have I been? Nowhere. Just hanging around. Nothing new to report. A perfect recipe for another writer’s block post!

Why can’t I find something to write about? I mean, there’s gobs of stuff happening. Work is a-buzzing and I’ve had plenty of smartass moments. Lots of stuff happening: a new vehicle, new TV, flooring and painting rooms, installing blinds, springtime gardening, helping neighbours, my son’s 17th birthday, winter pool league ending, summer pool league beginning, selling my old Camry, junk day in Moncton (giving away an almost perfectly good treadmill), installing Linux on a scrapped PC, taking my motorcycle out of storage, upgrading Wordpress, insomnia, NHL playoffs… you know, everyday life.

So… why can’t I find something interesting to share with both of my faithful fans?

Wait a minute! That last paragraph has a shitload of stuff to write about! Doh!

I don’t want her to get any ideas.

“An American woman who says she accidentally shot and killed her husband in central Newfoundland is now suing two life insurance companies.” According to the news story in my CBC news feed, she mistook him for a bear.

Stop laughing. It’s not funny. I’m sure it was unintentional, regardless of the fact that he was worth more than a half a million bucks upon his death. He should have worn his orange vest instead of the first thing he pulled out of his closet.

I’ve received many chain letters in my day. I don’t mind people sending them to me as long as they don’t mind that I don’t forward them. There’s not a cell in my body that remotely believes that my luck, fortune, misfortune or anything else for that matter can or will be influenced by how quickly or to how many of my friends I forward an email that requests me to do so.

Whether I’m passing up on a piece of Bill Gates’ fortune by not taking part in his email experiment or I’m not assisting some terminally ill child get into the Guiness Book of Records or I’m not helping some family find their abducted child or refusing to fill in some silly survey about myself or I’m testing fate thus guaranteeing death or dismemberment or simply refuse “make someone’s day” by forwarding a cutesy message to all of my dearest friends with the request that “I’d better get it back”… I’m simply not gonna do it. I simply read the messages for the entertainment or warm fuzzy feelings they provide and delete them.

Until now… THIS E-Mail chain letter is true. It is the only chain letter I’ve read that has passed my scrutiny. Only read on if you dare have your life changed forever. This is the chain letter of all chain letters.

If you don’t forward this post to 17 of your best friends, 4 of your enemies, and 2 people you haven’t heard from in 9 years, fuck all will happen. Oh, and you have 4 minutes and 33 seconds to do so.

I find everyday conversation fun. Being an ass really has it’s advantages sometimes. The simplest conversations can lead to limitless entertainment. Too many opportunities to be a smartass, and not enough memory in my brain to remember them all much less enough time to organize my thoughts and share them with y’all. But, here’s a couple from today:

So, there we were, sitting in the kitchen, the three of us (me, wifey, and sonny) having an after-breakfast banter. Sonny says something that triggers a synapse in my brain and I quickly look at wifey. She has immediately recognized this look and realizes that I am thinking about a zinger which would sting her pretty good. It’s an inside joke that even sonny is not in on, so I can’t give the details here. However, she points, or rather wags, her finger at me in a menacing way.

“One word, and it’s a divorce for you! ONE word!” she says.

There was a pause of silence while I weighed the options. “Really?”

I gave her one word, but I guess it was the wrong one.

Later in the day, sonny and I were out for groceries. Wifey wrote up a list and sent us on our way. Usually, we don’t get too far and my cell phone rings. But this time, we made it all the way to the grocery store aisles before my hip vibrated. “Hello?” I says. The first words out of her mouth were, “I don’t think I really need you now…. nope, I don’t. We already have sour cream, I just found it…. ok then, see ya.” I says, “Hold on there one minute. I think at some time down the road, I’m gonna call you. When you answer, the first words I say will be ‘I don’t think I really need you now.‘ and when I do, let’s see how you like it!”

You too can be a smartass and enjoy the fun of everyday seriousness. Make your first thought focus on a distracting comment, leaning toward silliness. If you don’t think you are quick-witted enough, I’ll help you get started with a simple, fool-proof approach. “I had a girlfriend (or boyfriend) like that once.” Memorize that phrase. Keep it on the tip of your tongue. Quickly assess every statement in any given conversation for opportunities to slip the phrase in and reap the benefits and rewards of folks thinking you are a cleverly witted person. Trust me, it works. Then when the laughter subsides, occasionally add in: “I married her.” Guffaws will ensue.

So next time you are talking with someone who tells you that their computer keeps going down on them, or they are having trouble getting their engine to turn over on cold mornings, remember my advice. You’ll be everybody’s best friend. (You guessed it… I had a girlfriend like that once!)