Juggling to Beatles Music

Just saw this again and am still in awe; had not seen it in ages, but had to share. This fellow's name is Chris Bliss. He is a comedian and this video was taken at the Just for Laughs Festival in Montreal, 2002. Amazing talent.

Happy anniversary...

On January 11, 1997, Sheryl and I got married.

In Las Vegas.

And no, not by an Elvis impersonator. It was in a small chapel. Within Treasure Island. It was surprisingly tasteful. Well, perhaps except for the beginning of our wedding video where pirates are storming a ship, firing cannons, buckling their swashes and saying, "Aaaaarrrrgh!"

Once again, I digress.

That makes today our anniversary.

We've been together for a while; first of all living in two houses and then downsizing to one - and no, not the better house, but rather the better neighbourhood.

Our paths first crossed in 1991. My marketing and advertising company moved into the top floor (fifth) of an old brewery in Toronto's historic Corktown District. Great space; exposed brick walls, original beams - even today, there is still a "wow" factor attached to the space. Sheryl's company, a design firm, was located on the ground floor.

Back then my company did not have its own graphics studio. Shortly after moving in, I decided to check out this design firm since we had an urgent need for a newspaper advertisement to be built and they were a great deal more convenient than our present supplier.

I walked through the door. Seated at art tables or desks were six people. Three women. Maeve. Lenore. And Sheryl. I was “drawn” to Sheryl. Introductions were made and my project was reviewed. Hours later, proofs were approved and the ad made its way to the Toronto Star for insertion.

Every one in the company was very pleasant - especially the three women. All were smart and, of course, very attractive. Maeve and Lenore were a bit younger than me. But there was "something" between Sheryl and me - except, neither one of us really new it.

Within a few days, I called Sheryl and asked if she would like to go to dinner. The last time I had heard this much hemming, hawing and stuttering was listening to Mel Tillis being interviewed. Talk about painful. Finally I said, "Look... we both have to eat. Do you like Thai? What about tomorrow evening at 7.30pm?" I had not been used to this type of treatment from a woman. "OK, tomorrow at 7.30 it is."

In the weeks that followed, we went out several times. For reasons that frankly escape me now, we did not let on to anyone what we were doing. Especially her co-workers. That led to an almost embarrassing situation when we all went out for dinner one evening - but that, too, is another story.

Everything continued to go well between us - professionally and personally. One Friday evening, Sheryl came to my house and I made dinner. No idea what I made. All I really remember are two things; we talked for hours (truly) and Sheryl left late that night. We did not have a chance to eat dessert. No, not for reasons that you may be thinking, dear reader, but truly because we talked. I do remember it was fresh fruit salad.

The following morning, I was going about my business, puttering around my house and there was a knock on the door. Sheryl stood there with a tub of Häagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream and said it was time for dessert. A fresh pot of coffee was made and we sat in my back garden, talking some more, drinking steaming mugs of coffee topped with ice cream.

Sheryl had never been married. Me, once before. Over the years neither one of us felt a "need" to marry one another. We really enjoyed what we had. One hot summer afternoon, sitting by the pool, we started talking about marriage. Sheryl's parents were getting older. She was the eldest of three and the only daughter. Her two brothers were married. We decided then and there we were going to marry. Yes, for us, but primarily for her parents, her father, Joe, especially. His health had not been great.

We made arrangements to go to Las Vegas. Strange but true. This was exactly what Sheryl wanted to do. It was actually a dream of hers. To marry in Las Vegas. The other, I found out years later, was to marry a red-headed writer.

In keeping with our past subterfuge, we told no-one what we were doing - except for my brother, Ross and two very dear friends, Deb and Frank Nash from Detroit, Michigan. The Nash's were to be part of our wedding party. Actually, they were the wedding party.

As far as everyone was concerned, we were going to Aruba for one week. On holiday. If anyone had checked, our flight and a flight to Aruba left on the same day, from the same terminal, with the same airline, within 15 minutes.

We were married on the Saturday and on Sunday morning, from our suite at the Mirage, we started calling family and friends.

That was then.

This evening, there will be no battle of wills over dinner. We will be picking up Indian food from our favourite Indian restaurant - Shafiq's Taste of India.

Happy anniversary, Sheryl. Thanks for putting up with me all these years. Love you.

Hair raising static...

TLATO, like most women I know, occasionally has "issues" with her hair.

Years ago, while she started to prematurely gray, she decided to add a rinse. This would be OK, until a couple of weeks in and her hair would take on the hue of an anemic eggplant and did not look at all "normal". Unless you were called Elvira and auditioned for a position on the local cable TV station to host less than B movies in the wee small hours of the evening.

I digress.

A while before we finally married (another story for another time) she cut her hair off. OK, she did not do it, but she had it cut very short, professionally. Personally, as much as I love long, clean hair on a woman, I really liked this not-quite brush cut. It was, I thought, very attractive. Not just the hair, you understand, but the whole "package".

This, too did not last since Sheryl did not like contending with bed head.

So it grew. And was trimmed. And it grew some more.

She never coloured it again and today has wonderful silver-coloured hair that many women comment favorably, "Who colours your hair?"

For many months of the year, TLATO's hair is rarely a point of conversation. Where we live, there are actually some months during the year when extreme cold temperatures do not wreak havoc with her fine, silver tresses. Winter months? Totally different story.

We returned from a vacation in Florida a few days ago.

Yesterday, the hair comments started.

"I'm going to cut my hair! Where’s Soultana's number?"

You see, it's quite cold where we live in Ontario. The temperatures and dryness do not react well with Sheryl's hair. You've seen examples of static electricity charges in science centres, etc. before? Well during the winter months, her hair acts as if it has a mind of its own. And wearing a hat exacerbates the situation to the power of, oh, 100.

I had to go into town and asked if she wanted to come with.

On the way home, I needed to stop at the drug store. While I had a prescription filled, TLATO was engaged in a serious conversation with one of the "advisors" that work in the cosmetics department.

I walked over to find an effusive and beaming Sheryl. Apparently her problem, fly-away hair issue had been taken care of thanks to this young woman. There was no "beauty product" solution. The helpful young woman recommended another, completely different product for her hair. One which neither one of us would have considered. One which many of you have seen commercials on television. Available at drug stores and supermarkets everywhere. Just not in the cosmetics, beauty or hair care sections.

Static Guard.

From Sheryl's personal viewpoint, this was on par with the discovery of penicillin.

A true miracle. Her hair looked great! All was well in Sheryl-land.

This morning, I found TLATO going through kitchen drawers and rubber-banded stacks of business cards.

"What's up?"

"I'm looking for a number."

"Oh... For what?"

"Soultana."

Twelve hours previous there had been a hallelujah revelation. Today, things were back to normal. And yes, Static Guard does work.

Say what?... part one

The English language is one of some subtlety and a source of frustration. Full of words spelled the same way yet, depending on the sentence context and pronunciation, presents a different meaning. Heteronyms. And, homographs. Is it any wonder then that Strother Martin's character in Cool Hand Luke spoke the immortal words, "What we have here is a failure to communicate?"

Combine that with the attention span of most people and varying accents and there is a recipe for further confusion.

I'm reminded of a situation a few years back with our vet, Dr. Jeff. We were in with Ozzie, our first Bernese Mountain Dog and for some reason, we started discussing "scooting" and "expressing anal sacs". Oz never had this issue and why we got to talking about it, I have no idea. TLATO started talking about something else, completely unrelated. But Jeff, as he is wont to do, started off on one of his medical soliloquies. He kept using the phrase "anal sex", at least, that's very much what it sounded like to me and Sheryl. His conversation even started to make some sense around this particular phrase. He described how working in the veterinary practice he would need to be involved with it almost daily. In fact, he almost boasted that there were a couple of female vet techs who “worked in back” that had apparent expertise with handling anal sex. How he would know this made us both wonder in an "Eeeeeew!" way.

After a few moments of this, I swear, all we continued to hear were those two words. Anal. Sex.

Each to their own we thought, independent of one another, left and then got in the car. A few moments of absolute silence passed before we looked at one another. "What the hell was that all about?" We consider Jeff our vet and a friend, however, neither one of us had any knowledge of the relationship careening into what some might consider taboo territory.

We went over the highlights of the conversation (as I alluded, pretty much one-sided with the occasional, "Really?" or "Uh-huh!" muttered uncomfortably from one us), we slowly but surely and practically simultaneously realized that we were not part of an anal sex "back door" discussion, rather a medical one - as it related to animals and their anal sacs.

I'm reminded of dear Emily Patella (for those who have no idea, a character of the late Gilda Radner)...

"What's wrong with sax and violins on television? I think there should be more sax and violins."

"Emily, that's sex and violence, not sax and violins."

"Oh. Never mind."

And on that note, please see video below...

Stanley Steemer Toby's New Trick