Hello, My Beauty!
This is the first turning Taxi tomato of the season. I’ve been waiting.
Waiting, waiting, waiting to pluck that tomato right off the vine. Before pigmunks. Before bunnies. Even before geriatric squirrels. And any other varmints strolling through the back garden trolling for a late night or early morning snack.
True Confessions ~
We were sitting at an outdoor cafe right at the sidewalk in Torontonian-land, aka The Six, The 6, or The 6ix early one day, sipping and noshing. Fueling for the packing morning ahead. Along came a woman attached by a leash to what I’m pretty sure was a Weimaraner tween. She had a long, shrink-wrapped, stick treat that she was struggling to get the shrinky wrap off of. You know how that goes. You get that plastic about half way done and it won’t budge.
So I called out.
My man’s got a pocket knife. He can help you with that.
G-Man stops the scone noshing and pulls out his pocket knife. The PK is a thing with guys. Like an opposable thumb. Wouldn’t leave home without it. Am I right?
Anyway. She hands off the stick. He grabs it by the unwrapped end and proceeds to cut away enough to pull that wrapper the rest of the way off. He hands it back to the woman and we all smile and nod. A good turn.
She flips it to tweenie-pup and leans over to G-Man and says…
You do know what this is made of, right?
Mr. G shakes his head in the negatory way.
Bull penises! You’re probably going to want to wash your hands before you finish that scone.
And off they went, happy as a Weimaraner with a bull penis treat.
And I got the death glare.
No good turn goes…
The last thing G-Man said to me as he headed off for a vigorous hand-washing session was — Don’t let the sparrows eat the last of my scone.
I only looked away for a second, texting with the only daughter. I swears!
It was enough. Enough time for two sparrows to grapple over what was left of that scone.
The G-Man slid back into his chair, with what I can only assume were pristine digits, and looked down.
Where’s my scone?
I studied the empty spot in front of him. Blinked.
Drone got it…
Here be Friday.
Try to muddle along until it’s time for a cold one.
You know what to do. Meet you in the bar in 3…2…1…
Happy weekend, y’all.
Elen, Empress of Explanation Points!