One red kazoo

I’ve never actually tasted it.
That said, Old English malt liquor, henceforth to be referred to as OE so as not to confuse those familiar with rap music, has made more than one appearance in my life.
According to Wikipedia, the source I tend to pilfer from for all my “accurate” information, malt liquor, “because of its relatively high alcohol content and low price, is popular among those on a tight budget wanting to become drunk quickly.”
And this is why malt liquor has never crossed my delicate palate. I don’t abstain because I am a sophisticate, rather, I am, perhaps, the only person you’ll ever know who can easily begin slurring after a half a six-pack of non-alcoholic beer.
But what if it tastes great, I wonder. What if Wikipedia has it all wrong, and what if the appeal isn’t the alcohol content, but rather, the exquisite bouquet, the alluring aftertaste, the hint of oak.
What if?
And though I don’t typically spend my day considering the potential of OE, I did today.
Why?
Because as I looked out my now famous window to the world, I spotted our usual working girl, getting ready for a long shift. She had showered and looked clean, her hair was braided and her clothes looked new, if not stylish.
As I sat, gazing out to space in her direction, I spotted a massive glass bottle in her hand, nearly drained.
About a half-inch of yellowish liquid rolled around in the bottle’s basement. Almost gone.
But then duty called, and, presumably needing both hands for the job, she looked left and right. Seeing no cup holder, no coaster, no travel mug, the lady of the night (and day) marched across to the bark mulch filled boulevard bordering the building and planted her bottle in the dirt. Wedged in there nice and tight, perhaps hoping it would sprout in the time it took to get the job done, she hopped in the waiting truck and was off.
And, seeing how she had not returned for the yellowish liquid, and curious to see if the OE had sprouted, I marched outside.
Down I looked toward the recyclable garden, and there it sat, proud and mostly empty.
And right beside is a red kazoo.
Perhaps the homeless and the drug addicted and the downtrodden have the right idea. Perhaps we don’t need the fancy drinks, the fancy toys, the gadgets and the gizmos.
Perhaps everything you need for a really good time was right in front of you all along.

Miss Congeniality

What a great morning. Every morning I play a little game called Count the Garbage Left by Homeless People/Working Girls.
It's fun to play, but really, no one wins.
Here’s a list I’ve developed so far, and keep in mind, I’ve only played the game for a week:
• One left ankle boot, brown
• One blood trail, ending at top of steps
• Half dozen tiny Ziploc bags
• Three broken Bic lighters
• One bloody t-shirt looks to be size small. Logo on front endorses Bulldog Boxing. Angry bulldog
• Eight large Slurpie cups
• One, six-inch long PVC tube. Well used.
Again, it’s only been a week. This morning, I spotted an actual homeless person/working girl under the awning, and no, I’m not cruel enough to add her to my list. She was carrying what looked to be a piece of metal from a kid’s swing set and had her hair done up like Anne of Green Gables in Anne of Green Gables, The Sequel — you know, all puffy on top. Quite becoming actually.
She was crouched behind some shrubbery near the front door, and I looked over, surprised to see her, and said “Hello,” with a smile.
“Well hello Miss America,” she grumbled in return.
What a great morning.
Indeed, in this game no one wins. Not even Miss America.

Quick thinking

According to my resume I’m a great “problem solver," I can “think on my feet.”
Not true.
This morning I found I am not a great problem solver. In fact, I cannot think on my feet at any point, as evidenced by a rather distressing morning commute through the Tim Hortons drive thru.
Sigh.
As a treat, one day each week I’ll make the point of setting aside a couple of toonies for a coffee and a bagel — or if I’m feeling like a real risk taker, I’ll go for a breakfast sandwich. Mmmm breakfast sandwich.
This morning was one of those mornings. I got to the drive thru, which was, shock of shocks, virtually empty.
“This would be a grand morning indeed,” my freshly showered self thought to my freshly showered self.
When I got to the order microphone I verbalized my request for a coffee, with two cream one sugar, and a toasted everything bagel with plain cream cheese.
Delish.
But that’s where the good part of the story ends, and the plot twist begins.
Arriving at the window to accept the goodies in exchange for the coins, the order-taker girl hesitated, and with a bit of a gap-toothed stammer, said: “We’re all out of everything bagels, will an onion bagel do?”
Gack! No, of course an onion bagel won’t do! And though I screwed up my face in response to her statement, could I think of any other bagel flavour as a substitute? As the cars piled up behind me, could I even consider saying “no, cinnamon raison, please,” or “cheese please,” or even, “plain please?”
No, of course I couldn’t think of any of those equally delicious flavours. I couldn’t think of anything except how poor a substitute an onion bagel would be for an everything bagel. In fact, all I could think of was the fact that the onion in the everything bagel was the weakest link.
And so I said, “yeah, sure,” took my foul smelling bagel and drove off.
So, no, I cannot think on my feet, and I am not an adept problem solver. And now I have to rush out to the store to buy gum because my onion breath is killing me.
Happy friggin Monday.