Skip navigation

Tag Archives: True Story

Big Horn Sheep (Male), Near Jasper, Alberta

Image via Wikipedia

There was a time, before my wife and I got
got married, when I was almost single.

This is WD0FEO, coming to you from the Colorado Queen.

Yes, it really is me (back in the day).

Did I really just say that?  Yes, I guess I did.  I
was almost single, because the woman dropped
me like moldy blueberry yogurt.

She was living alone in a buffet apartment in
Grant, Colorado.  Grant is the size of one male
Rocky Mountain Big Horn Sheep.  The South
Platte River (excellent trout fishing) was right
outside her kitchen window and across the
highway is the goat path which goes up over
Guanella Pass and drops back down into
Georgetown.  I could not stand the thought of
her being there all alone with nothing, but Big
Horn Sheep to keep her company.

It drove me googly-eyed bonkers.  I could not
eat or sleep, how could I when I had to worry
about how to act being single.  Between her and
the few dates I managed to scrape up now and
then, the word single was not in my vocabulary. 

I sent friends by with bags of groceries for her.
She would call me up at the Bailey Country Store
and read me the riot act, then hang up.  One day
I snuck over to her landlord’s house, right next
door to her place and paid the rent for her.  It
was not long before she found out, and boy was
she angry.  You never want to see that woman
angry.  She’s a lot like the Tasmanian devil on
steroids when she gets mad.  Needless to say,
she called the law.

When the telephone at the store rang, it went
like this,  “Hello.”

“Glenn, this is detective so-and-so.”

“Yes.”  I was thinking she jumped in the river or
something.  My heart was in the bottoms of my
Fred Flintstone feet.

“I was just wondering,” this man clears his throat
and it sounds a bit like fingernails scraping on a
chalkboard.  “If I say I will never come into your
store again, will you pay my rent too?”

Luckily I only had to show up at her door once
with a big yellow ribbon tied around my neck
and a couple of crocodile tears in my eyes.  She
said yes and within a few weeks we were married
at Olive Garden, for the Black Tie Cheesecake.

All in all, I was almost single once, but I am glad
she said yes.  I still can’t sleep.  However, I do
have access to all the sugary, chocolate, pastry,
and home-baked goodies a man could ever have
nightmares about.

Copyright 2011, by Glenn Raymond.

Whipped cream coffee & sandwich

Image via Wikipedia

Approximately six years ago, my wife’s son got
her hooked on the Vinte’ Starbucks Mocha
Frappacino with two shots of espresso, and of
coarse, tons of whipped cream.  He should have
been ashamed of himself, knowing how
susceptible his mother is, to such fantastic
delights.  She is the carbohydrate, raw sugar and
espresso queen.  However, she does not have the tiaras to
prove her royalty, but it is true.

Three years back she proceeded to get me
hooked on the same Starbucks drink with, yes
(my head is hanging low in shame and severe
self loathing) the additional espresso and a
whole lot of whipped cream.  Who would have
ever thought that being a sweet mocha caf-fiend
whipped cream junkie could be so blessed
heavenly.  I am a true sap.  I know she led me by
the string around her cute little pinky into my
tragic addiction just so Iwould be her Starbucks
supplier.

Happily, I can say I did get even a few months
ago.  In my abnormal desire for anything sweet
and satisfying, I stumbled with beady bloodshot
eyes down the ice cream isle at the grocery store
frantically searching for the magic container at
the end of an hallucinated rainbow.  Sweating
profusely, I was literally frothing at the mouth.
Suddenly, there between two other brands sat
the crown jewel of cold creamy gems and I knew
at once I was saved.  My guardian angel was with
me.  Trembling, I hastily grabbed up two pints
of Starbucks Mocha Frappacino Ice Cream, even
though it does not come with added espresso.  I
raced home hoping not to get a ticket for licking
from an open container.  Vengeance is a tasty
delight, because now she buys my ice cream.

Wait a minute, me thinks I have been duped yet
again.  My lady uses my coinage.   

Copyright 2011, by Glenn Raymond.

Yes, it really is me (back in the day).

 

Thanksgiving has come and gone again and I just
realized I have some “need to know” information
for all of my fellow “anti-shop with the ladies”
men out there.  This is a true story and I never
have to shop with my wife again, because of it.

My wife loves to shop, so her gift has always
been to take her shopping.  Now guys, this is
not a good idea.  Such a gift will take years
from your life, trust me.

My lovely wife was dragging me around the
mall by the pocketbook (nose).  At the end
of $200.00 she suddenly remembered she
had to have a couple of good fitting bras.  I
had no clue what exactly I was in for when
she dragged me by the hair, kicking and
screaming into Victoria’s Secret.

I blushed at first, but then I gladly noticed
several other unlucky, red faced men
mulling around as well.  Actually, looking
back on it, a few of them seemed a tad too
happy about it.  They had most certainly
been brainwashed to appear happy at all
times by their significant others.

To my horror this place had undergarments
practically tied in knots, piled and heaped in
handy, pre-sized bins.  My wife began pilfering
the merchandise and for a few moments I
actually entertained the possibility that she just
might fall in head first and never come out again.
All of the male natives had the look of certain
uprising in their eyes.  I began plotting my
fast and safe escape route.

Thirty-five minutes in my wife holds up six sling
shots (bras) and announces to every man in the
store that she is going to try them on.  She
demanded that I stay firmly planted right where
I was.

I waited.  Panic was crawling and writhing about
in the pit of my gut and a few guys looked as
though they were either going to toss their
cookies or pass out.  Either way it was not going
to be pretty.  I waited.

After what was certainly ten years of my life, the
dressing room finally regurgitated my wife.  She
happily handed me one bra and tossed the rest
back into a bin.  I was so happy.

“We can go now?”

“Not on your life.  I’ve only found one.”

The ritual began again, and men let me tell you
it is not at all like the catalogs.  I never got to
see one of those gorgeous models.  Five bra’s
later my wife disappeared into the changing
room again.  My peaceful waiting had ended
though.

She must have heard me laughing, because she
tried those things on in a flat minute.  It had to
be some kind of bra hooking speed record.  It
was a complete shame the Guinness  people
were not on site.  She may have made me
famous that night if they had been.

I relished the horror in her eyes when she
emerged from the dressing room and caught me
parading her black bra around the store perched
perfectly around the crown of my cowboy hat.

I had never, and probably never will again,
experience that blushing,  “momma takes scalps”
look of complete and utter “giving birth” facial
expression again.

Without further hesitation I announced just
how fine it would be if stores like this one would
kindly install a bar and big screen television, so
we men could lounge around with dignity while
we were held hostage to wait for so long.  Every
man laughed and agreed with me.  I was glowing.

Clearly horrified, my wife rushed forth removing
my (her) elastic and lace hat band.  She was
clearly muttering vehement expletives in my
general direction.  With two bras in hand she was
escorted to the front of a very long line of angry
women.  I had performed much better than
planned.  The women who worked there loved
me so much they let us go first.

“I am SO so sorry.”  My dear wife looked quite ill
as we approached the register.

“Oh, no honey.”  The clerk replied.  “We’re sorry.”
She looked me over sideways.  “We are very
sorry for your misfortune.”

I think they charged me double, but it was worth
it.  The sound of clapping and cheering from the
other men rang out behind us. 

I have not had to go shopping with my wife
since.  So take it from me you guys, a few well
thought out, quick-witted tricks and your time
is just that, yours.  Enjoy.

Copyright 2010, by Glenn Raymond.
Photograph of Glenn Raymond, Copyright 2010,
by Glenn Raymond.  All Rights Reserved.

Amateur radio station of DJ4PI

Image via Wikipedia

Timber/Black Wolf, Me, Elkhound/Black Wolf

A few mornings ago, I was driving to work and
saw some guy on a bicycle cut off a car and get
hit.  The driver of the car kept going.  Luckily
the cyclist was wearing all of his safety gear. 

I do not use a cell phone, because where I live
they do not work.  I got on my ham radio and
explained what happened.  I love being a ham,
WD0-FEO.

I went to the cyclist to make sure he was not
too badly hurt.  I think his ego was.  He had a few
scrapes, but I did not see anything serious.  He
assured me he was alright. 

I sometimes forget that some people cannot
handle folks like me who call it the way I see
it.  Perhaps I lack tact, but I was just being
honest when I pointed out that it really was his
fault.

Now keep in mind, this guy was much younger
and pretty well-built.  Honestly he looked as
he could knock me around pretty good.  So the
guy took a swing at me for telling the truth.

I deflected his punch with my left hand and
grabbed his shirt with my right.  He is still
struggling and swinging at me.  All I could think
was, “God, I don’t want to have to beat up some
guy who just got run over.”  Just then a Colorado
State Trooper pulled up and I exclaimed, “Boy,
am I glad to see you.  I think he’s trying to kick
my butt (however, I used the other word).

This officer told the guy to settle down and step
off to the side for a minute while asking me what
had happened.  I told the officer everything.  As
sure as a whiskey hangover, the guy charged at
me swinging again when I explained that it was
the cyclist’s fault.  The State Trooper had to
demand that the guy sit in the patrol car to wait
for the ambulance.

What is up with that?  I could not believe this guy
wanting to punch my lights out for telling the 
truth.  My wife said it was merely a case of 
“steroid road rage.”  What ever it was, I hope
the driver of the car that hit this young man
is caught. 

I mean, it was not the fault of the driver, the
cyclist was fine and I was a witness.  It was quite
stupid for the driver to just keep going. 

What is up with these types of behavior?  I don’t
know, but I am hoping for “Felony Stupid” tickets
for both of them.  At least I know I tried to do
the right thing.

“You can’t fix stupid.”  Ron White.

Copyright 2010, by Glenn Raymond.