See Maureen go to Minneapolis on a family vacation.

See Maureen bring her teenage daughter to the Mall of America THREE times in five days.

See Maureen kill time wander into the "Department" store while her daughter tries on nearly everthing at Abercrombie and Fitch.


See Maureen spot the "Please shop from our branches" sign on the Christmas tree displays.

See Maureen reach for the metal reindeer ornament to add to her Christmas reindeer collection.

See the beautiful delicate blown glass ball, hanging a few branches down, plunge to the ground as if in slow motion.

See the ornament explode, shattering on the slate stone floor.

See Maureen stand frozen, horrified and unable to move or speak.

See all the customers and staff turn their heads in unison at Maureen.

See Maureen sputter "I'm so sorry... I'll pay for it of course".

See the nice clerk come over with broom and dustpan to swiftly clean up the shards.

See Maureen purchase the reindeer ornament, again requesting to pay for the broken one too.


See the clerk smile and reassure her with "Don't worry. I've broken so many of those myself".

See Maureen slink out of the store, shaking, cheeks burning crimson with shame.

See Maureen thank the Gods she wasn't killing time shopping a few doors down at THIS store:

I have to admit it was Daughter who insisted I hang onto the video game manuals I uncovered in The Great Purge of 2008 (see post below).

Having grown up on Nintendo and Wii, she nearly collapsed in a fit of hysterics at the descriptions and screen shots inside the 1982 Atari Game Catalog.

What? They were pretty cool... and the high-quality graphics were JUST like the advertisements. No?

As we were in the middle of Star Wars fever in the early eighties, space adventures were all the rage. Which is why "Berzerk" looked to be quite a thrill. At least from the "Artist's Interpretation" and game details:

"Trapped on a planet called Mazeon (because of all the mazes on it) you are relentlessly pursued by a gang of robot thugs. The leader of these mechanical heavies, Evil Otto, takes a real delight in your predicament. You must race through the mazes, dodging and shooting, as Otto and the others chase after you. Conquer one maze, and you'll find yourself in another. It's enough to drive you...crazy!"

Ohhh!!! "Evil Otto and Robot Thugs!" I can't wait to play this!



Okay. Maybe not so much.



Well, I remember playing Baseball. Or rather "Home Run". The write-up sounded great!

"You're waiting for the pitch. The crowd cheers as you send a deep drive to center field and score the winning run. Now you're the pitcher. You mix up your pitches with your even-handed control over fast, slow or curve balls. But be careful. Balls and strikes count. So do double plays, triple plays, force outs, tag outs and sacrifice flies."

Oh, yeah. Just like the REAL game.



Um. No.



But "Skydiver"! Now there was an action-filled game.

"You're ready for the big jump. The longer you can wait to open your chute, the more points you'll score. Steer your chute against varying wind velocities as you guide yourself to the landing pad. Land on the bull's-eye and get more points. But, if your chute fails to open - SPLAT!

Wow! "Velocities" and carnage. What fun!



Maybe not.



Not only were paddles and joysticks required equipment, apparently so was a healthy dose of imagination...

Oh. My.

But still, I really want to get our console repaired and working again... I mean nowadays when video games are so complex they are becoming nigh unbeatable, I need these old ones that I can understand and follow.

And I still have my paddles, joysticks AND imagination, so I'm all set.

Relax. This has nothing to do with bulimia or food poisoning... it was a purge of a different sort.

Although at times I DID feel nauseous. And achy. And tired.

And frankly bewildered that I could keep

All

That

Crap.

Yes, this was a purge of a materialistic kind.

By the numbers, with assistance from Count Von Count:

3! Three weeks.

8! Eight bursting recycling bins.

26! Twenty-six bags and boxes for Goodwill.

and

38! Thirty-eight bags of garbage!

(Thank you Count. You may now return to your castle on Sesame Street.)

Yes, that's what it took for me to shovel clean out the disaster area formally known as "The Basement".

After years of procrastination, it's done. I can now walk through my Star Wars collection without hurdling the Easter decorations. I can actually open the dryer door in the laundry room. And no carboard boxes are growing mold or providing low-rental housing for scary spiders.

3! Three Hairy Spiders!

(Count, I thought I told you to leave...)

It's a miracle, I tell ya.

I even got out the paper shredder I bought two years ago (well, I had to FIND it first)... and had a party shredding Very Important Papers such as income tax forms from 1975.

Why the heck I thought I needed to keep every frickin fuel bill, birthday card, receipt and instruction booklet that has ever weaseled it's way into our home, I have not the slightest idea.

Like this Very Important Item from 1982:


So now it's done.

And I can get back to way more important things like blogging, reading blogs and thanking all the nice bloggers for awards I obviously don't deserve.

4! Four Undeserving Awards!!!

(Damn that Count. Now where the hell did I put that wooden stake...)

Kids nowadays. Sometimes they just need to think on their feet more.

Case in point, Daughter and her friends are just months away from their 18th birthdays. Which in our province, is the age when the thrill is taken out of sneaking into gory movies.

So I could only laugh at the following story she shared with me with the other night.

A few of the gang decided to go to "The Cheap Seats" (aka the theatre graveyard before DVD release) to see an 18A movie. However, their usual "ticket purchaser" (a large fellow who shaves) was absent that night.

Hence the competition commenced for "The One Who Looks Oldest" to try their luck at the counter. (Daughter's shiny braces disqualified her right away).

Eventually 'D' (name withheld to protect the guilty) was chosen as the Most-Likely-To-Succeed and nervously made his way to the cashier while the rest of them hid in the shadows.

The attendant scrutinized the lanky youth. "You're 18, right?"

"Do you need ID?" 'D' asked.

"Yeah."

'D' sheepishly stated he "forgot it".

"But you're 18, right?" The attendant asked once more, likely to simply cover his own butt.

"Yup."

"Okay. That will be $ 9.75."

Which is the exact moment when the charade came to a crashing end. For 'D' then made the classic mistake of pulling out his WALLET to get the money.

In full view of the booth clerk.

"Isn't that your licence?"

'D' was speechless as he looked down and there, in all it's colorful betraying glory, was his driver's card, with his under-age birthdate prominently displayed.

With a smirk, the clerk handed him the tickets anyway, along with a piece of sage advice.

"Maybe next time, plan ahead..."

Ah, the foolishness of youth.

Yesterday as I walked through the ER waiting room I stopped in my tracks at the magazine rack -- because sitting there prominently among the donated periodicals was a magazine called "CRAP".

Well, I THOUGHT it said "Crap". Obviously my dyslexic brain was at it again. Either that, or I use that word way-too-much. (Hey, my family reads this blog, so I can't use the s- or f- words...)

In fact, the magazine was titled "CARP".

Carp?

Carp. "The magazine for Canada’s Association for the 50 Plus."

Um, someone needs to inform them that DOESN'T spell CARP.

I think it should be CRAP. As in "Holy, crap! I'm 50!!"


Because "Carp Magazine" is this.
















Or this.

















Or this.














Or this.

















And THIS apparently is Total Crap, er Carp:

Sure. I take photographs of family gatherings, for scrapbooking and a whole crapload for this here blog. I even have been called upon to take gross bloody pictures at work for the doctors (but I think that is just because no one else there is insane enough to bring their digital camera to work).

But I've never really considered myself a "photographer" per se.

Don't you have to take classes to acquire an "Official Photographer Extrodinaire" certificate or something to be called that?

Certainly I am nowhere in the same league as many talented bloggers who can produce amazing works of art with their cameras on a daily basis.

But every once in awhile, I DO stumble back-asswards into a fluke shot that surprises ME most of all.

Today was just such "in awhile".

My subject? Manitoba's favorite insect. Favorite because it EATS Manitoba's least-favorite-but-most-numerous insect; the vile and disease-infested mosquito.

Yup. The subject du-jour was a dragonfly. A HUGE dragonfly.

A beautiful black-tipped dragonfly that fluttered about me while I worked in the backyard. It perched on a bush, then flew around. Then perched again.

Over and over. Never straying far from me.

Of course as luck would have it, my camera was sitting inside the house.

Crap.

After watching this fella flit about my head for ten minutes, I decided to take a chance and retrieve my little Sony 4.1 Cybershot from my purse.

And when I got back outside, he was still there. Flying back and forth like a minature helicopter, then landing on a branch to rest.

He let me point my camera mere inches away, while I snapped off 37 shots.

Yes. 37.

I couldn't wait to get inside to see if I even got him in the frame of at least one shot.

Yup.

I sure did.