Won't Somebody Think Of The Vegetables????

I live in a small country town.
Not much happens. I don't think much has happened here throughout the entire history of the town.
That's not a complaint. I like that fact... most of the time.
Anyway, I was sitting in my local pub today.
Generally, the banter is about sheep or cattle. And rain, or the lack of it.
And it's not really the place you try and strike up a conversation about nano-technology or the latest fashion trends. Mention the word "iPhone" and most people would think you're making a proclamation that you now know how to use a telephone. Like I cook, or I clean, or I work.
In fact, it is more than likely, you'd even get a light spattering of polite applause acknowledging your newly announced achievement.
But being small and 10 plus years behind the times does have it's advantages.
The kids are still free to play like kids.
I've still yet to hear the phrase "Well it was like totally... awesome".
And discussions on the latest American sitcom barely get a mention.

So it was a little bit of a surprise when I heard an elderly gentleman ask another, "If you were an animal, what sort of animal would you be?"...

OK. So, we've all either read, or had that question directed at us at some point. But it was the response that intrigued me.

"Well now, not sure I could answer that."
A thoughtful pause, and then "...But, I know what vegetable I'd like to be. A potato."
All this was said rather matter-of-factly.

To which came the reply of "Yeah. I can see you as a potato. Yep. And me, I think I'd be spinach..."

And then their conversation seamlessly switched to the prices given at the last cattle sale.

Excuse me???
Now I freely admit to being a curious person by nature. But I don't like intruding on people enjoying a quiet beer, or interrupting their conversations.
Those vegetable statements however, got the better of me.

I asked elderly person One how it was that he had chosen the potato.
"Well," he said, "It's like this. Just like a mushroom, potatoes like being buried in crap and kept in the dark. And life is full of crap. So may as well be something that likes it.
But mushies, are a bit too fragile for my liking. I reckon I'd like to be made of sterner stuff.
That and I like starch in me shirts.
Nothing like the water you've boiled potatoes in for starching shirts."

After hearing this explanation, given with a similar authority to how I imagine Moses announced the 10 commandments, I turned my attention to the second gentleman...
"And spinach?" I asked expectantly.

"Oh, that's easy." said Gentleman Two, with a look upon his face that made me feel like Forrest Gump.
"As old Harry here will tell ya. I got good blood. And spinach is good for blood. But I tend to wilt in the heat a bit. Don't I, Harry?"
Elderly gent One gave a Moses-like nod of confirmation...
And with that, they each took a sip of their respective beers, and returned to discussing the last cattle sale.

Now apart from thinking of a potato wearing a neatly pressed and starched shirt, and a clump of spinach rocking up to the Red Cross Blood Bank, it did also make me wonder what vegetable I would like to be...

What's an inquisitive vegetable? Beans? With their tendrils growing everywhere? Although they're technically a legume. But let's not be too specific with the definition of what is or isn't a vegetable.
Hmmm... a reflective vegetable, like a shiny onion, with plenty of layers?
Maybe a pumpkin, with a hardened exterior, but full of good intentions within?

Or perhaps I am an eggplant. Slightly exotic. Somewhat interesting to look at in a weird way. And you're never quite sure what to make of eggplants, and when you cut into them, unless they're salted down and cured correctly, they can leave a bitter taste in your mouth?
Yeah. That sorta sounds right.
Garf the Eggplant.

Yo-ho-ho!!!... A single life for me... (and a bottle of rum)

Actually I don't drink anymore...
Well that's not exactly true...
I do have the odd drink on occasion. But very rarely these days. Perhaps 5 or 6 beers in my (now once a year) drinking session.
And definitely never more than 3 rums.
Not that rum makes me do anything stupid.
But any more than three and it just sends my brain into hyper-drive (I think it is the sugar).
Then I find thoughts like those safely contained in this blog, somehow end up being voiced amongst company...
Talk about clearing a room!

Then recently I got to thinking. I have rules on drinking. So, do I have rules on dating and relationships?
...After after having 6 beers and 3 rums, I realise I do.
And they're not particularly complicated...

RULE ONE:
My Cherry Ripes are my own. Hands off.
Explanation:
It's a question of trust. I mean if I can't trust someone to not eat my Cherry Ripe after I've asked them specifically not to eat it... how can I trust them with anything else...
Hmmm... But then again, I do realise Cherry Ripes are very yummy, so if the other person were to eat it, I'd expect to be told and for it to be replaced post haste.
POST HASTE I TELL YOU!!!
Or at least have one added to the next shopping list.

RULE TWO:
Do not assume you know my answer to something.
Explanation:
This is not some deep-seeded arrogance on my part. Hell, I don't even know what my answers will be most of the time.
I mean I have core values that don't shift. You know, stuff like kids should be protected from harm. Murder is wrong. Those sorts of things. But how I will interpret some pieces of information is pretty fluid. Like... umm... one day I'll decide I hate hot dogs and a month from then I'll probably feel like one...

Be right back, I feel like eating a hot dog...

*burp*

...Oh! Now I remember why I hate hot dogs...
They taste horrible.

I guess what I'm saying is that if you should not assume my answers but it's OK if you don't tell me something, no wait... It's OK to say you've done something because there's a chance I would have changed my mind eventually to agree with whatever it is you've done, and therefore, I gave my permission.... I just may not have realised it yet.

RULE THREE:
Don't come between me and my PlayStation time.
Explanation:
Men are like cavemen. There. I admit it.
Here's the thing. After a days hunting, cavemen liked to retire to the back of the cave for some solitude, to think about the hunt. It wasn't anti-social behaviour. Just a way to unwind from the stress of the hunt.
Playing PlayStation is the modern man's equivalent of heading to the back of the cave, that's all.
And asking me to stop playing, before I am ready, is like trying to smoke me out of my cave by lighting a fire at the entrance.
And that seems logical doesn't it? Lighting the fire?
But like all dumb men instead of heading for the entrance and fresh air...
I'll head further into the cave... and become more determined to play on.

Oh. And ladies. Don't stand in front of the TV...
That's never going to work.
To men that's like a saber-toothed tiger has entered the cave.
And seeing as those things were really, really scary, our only instinctual option is to try and huff, and puff, and gruff and bluff our way out of the situation.

Now you understand why we get so grumpy when you do that. It's not our fault it's evolutionary.

But here's what you do... and I can't believe I'm letting you know... grab the 2nd controller and hit the START button to pause the game. Then you'll have my undivided attention, or at least the 2nd controller will... but you'll be holding it. So you'll have the power.

END OF RULES.

Hmmm. Thinking on it further. My rules aren't really rules are they?
They're actually pretty easy to circumvent.
Man! That's so unfair.
That's it. I'm staying single. Or getting rid of my second PlayStation controller.

Drinking or not drinking isn't this confusing.
So you can do what you want, and I'll just follow my drinking rules, if that's OK?
Ermm... please?

The truth is out there... Male makeovers. AVOID!

I'm never going to be a male model. I thought about pursuing a career in it once. But after some initial inquiries, the only offer I received was a chance to be in Gay Bear Truckers Monthly (and not that there's anything wrong with that)... plus, being told I would be on page 24 and the not the centrefold was a bit disheartening... so I gave up on the idea.
Now I don't want this to sound like sour grapes. Life has many disappointments, and if that's as disappointing as my life gets, then I can deal with it. Besides, breaking Gay Truckers hearts, especially Gay Bear Truckers, by having to reveal I'm not gay (again, not that there's anything wrong with that) probably would have given me a crisis of conscience.

However, this minor flirtation with the idea of being a male model did begin to make wonder about my overall appearance.
Not so much as to whether or not I'm good looking. The answer to that is no. But more about if I was working enough with what little I have. That is, could I perhaps give myself a 'D.I.Y. Extreme Makeover' ?

For research I watched 5mins of Australia's Next Supermodel, 3mins of OPRAH, and three infomercials about some such beauty products, I dunno.
I did try asking my mates down at my local pub about what beauty regime they used, but the peals laughter, disparaging snorts, queries about my state of sobriety, and some rather obscure references about me, my testicles, and something about them having gone on holiday, meant any usable knowledge they may have shared was lost in the overall cacophony.
But that aside, I did feel I was ready to try my makeover. I had the basics. I was ready.

First off I thought I'd try the cucumber on the eyes thing. They seemed quite keen on it in Australia's Next Supermodel.
After a fruitless (bad pun intended) search throughout my fridge for the 'vegetable' in question, I settled on grabbing the largest gherkin (or pickle) I could out, of a jar I'd found hidden up the back, behind the tofu I'd bought to impress some girl a few months ago. And so I cut two slices off it. The gherkin, not the tofu. I'm never touching that stuff no matter how pretty the girl is. Anyway, with Gherkins being just baby cucumbers, I felt this was an appropriate substitute.
Big mistake! After settling down in my reclining chair and placing the slices over my eyes, I was suddenly reminded of why some people do in fact call them pickles... oh how it burned!!!

But I was not put off by this failure.

Once the stinging in my eyes had subsided to a reasonable level I was able to refocus on my regime. I saw on one of the infomercials something about opening the pores of your skin with steam, and how that can make you look more youthful.
So I stumbled and groped my way, still semi-blind, to the kitchen and put the kettle on.
They say a watched pot never boils...
But believe me, holding your face over the spout of a kettle while you wait for it to boils seems like an eternity.
I'm not sure exactly what went wrong, but thinking on it, I probably should have used a towel or something. I vaguely remember the woman on the infomercial doing that.

So, still somewhat blinded, and now suffering from 2nd degree burns to my face, I felt I had nothing to lose and decided nevertheless, to push on with the final stage of my D.I.Y. makeover... I had heard on a discussion on Oprah that enlightened men these days shave their chests. What could go wrong? I mean I'd been shaving in a more normal fashion for years, without any major incident.

Luckily for me and my hindered eyesight, I normally shave in the kitchen. No need to grope my way around the house. And I shave in the kitchen (I live alone by the way), not for any strange reason. It's just that the water out of the hot tap in the kitchen seems a couple of degrees warmer than that of the bathroom. And if you have wiry hair then you know what a difference those few degrees can make. If you don't, then just trust me on this.

Anyway, I knew my razors were on the window ledge just above the sink, and I could sort of make them out. And I remembered that I had put the can of saving foam pretty close to my waffle iron at breakfast time. I had been making waffles, and had shaved while I waited for them to be ready. Too easy. I saw the can, or a blurry image of it.
Grabbed it and began to shake.
Now is it just me, or does that click-click noise from the little ball (or whatever it is inside) make you think you are part of some Latin band and you are a maracas or flamenco castanet maestro???
But I digress...
I finished shaking the can, applied a liberal amount of foam to my chest, grabbed a razor and prepared to shave...
Now I can't be certain if it was on the third or fourth stroke of my razor when I heard a noise in the backyard. Can and razor in hand I headed off to investigate...
Stumbling about, like some sunburned zombie, I made my way out the back door and down the steps with only a few minor bumps, trips and mumbled curses.
It was at this point I was thrown backwards with an weight hitting me. I crashed to the ground hitting my head on the very last step. It took just a moment for me to realise a dog had jumped up at me and pushed over. I could tell by the panting (and the dog-breath).
Remembering that dogs like licking faces, I immediately covered my face with my arms... I'm not sure but dog drool can't be good for 2nd degree burns can it?
Then the strangest thing happened. The dog began licking my chest with enthusiasm...
Knowing I was only in danger of being licked to death by my canine attacker a sense of relief flooded over me.
"Good boy! Good boy!!!" I exclaimed. "Who's a good boy??"...

Then I heard a female voice say "Garf? Are you ok?".
Turning my head in the direction of the voice I replied with a nervous giggle that I was, or at least I thought I was.
The sound of footsteps came closer...
"Are you sure?..."
Then a few more hesitant footsteps...
"Oh my GOD!!!... you SICKO!!!"
Baffled, hurt and trying hard to stifle a painful giggle building from the dog's licking I managed a weak "What? What do you mean? Can you just give me a hand up, please... whoever you are."
Silence. Then a sharp intake of breath.
"Garf! When you said come around for a coffee one day. I knew you were a bit odd. And that was alright. But WHY do you have a can of WHIPPED CREAM, and why are you encouraging that dog to lick your chest with it? IT'S SICK! JUST SICK!!!!"
Another sharp intake of breath... then the sound of heavy and rapid footsteps disappearing into the distance...

I learnt 3 things from that experience.

1. Male makeovers are not for me
2. That it's best to shave in the bathroom no matter what.
3. And my neighbor's dog loves whipped cream...

I have never found out who owned the female voice. Asking a woman if they remember the day I had a dog licking whipped cream of my chest is not that easy to work into a conversation.

Some mysteries are just best left unsolved...