Ever thought about painting your front door to add a little pop, a little pizzazz? Those folks at HGTV make it seem so easy, and red is often the color of choice. But could you handle something in fire engine red? One of our neighbors can. And did.
Maybe it’s not adding pizzazz as much as a desire for pizzas. After spending my college years in food service, I am well aware that red makes folks hungry. These signs can attest to that.
I’m already salivating! But why would you want to make your guests hungry? That just means you have to serve them. Does the color even have to mean anything? Evidently, it does.
The folks at Home Decor Bliss suggest that red has a welcoming energy, bringing luck, proclaiming protection, and even announcing that you’ve paid your last mortgage payment. Who knew that was a thing? Well, www.apartmenttherapy.com explains that while you may have heard that our friends in Scotland paint doors red to symbolize when they’re “out of the red,” it’s largely a myth. At that point, there’s no money left for a bucket of paint.
Not a fan of red doors? Well, you’re not alone. As the Rolling Stones once sang, “I see a red door, and I want it painted black.” Sounds controlling to me.
That’s a song I learned in the 70s as a child, watching Sesame Street. All the counting songs are forever imbedded in my brain, often hitting the needle at 3am as I awaken, and playing in my head as I do what middle-aged folks do at least twice each early morning.
Everybody likes ladybugs, no? They don’t sting. Their shape and color are pleasing, and they can eat thousands of insects in their lifetimes, so more power to them. Plus, they are polka dotted like a jaunty spring umbrella! This one seemed to enjoy our oak tree just fine. Sadly, the ice storm in February killed many of our trees, and this one was felled by a chainsaw last week, ne’er more to be walked upon by ladybug legs.
Papa, can you see me? Papa, why are you on a stretcher?
It appears that the actual tiger, the largest cat species on earth, has noticed the prostrate Tigger being carried away, presumably for treatment. I wouldn’t worry about Old Tigger. After all, their tops are made out of rubber, their bottoms are made out of springs!
During WWII, Australia, like many countries, forced citizens to ration supplies. While fuel was rationed, wood was not, so these Australians used all manner of buggy to tote mallee root home. Never heard of mallee root? Well, it’s the rootstock of a mallee tree, of the genus Eucalyptus, which we’ve all heard of, because we picture koalas snug in their branches. And you probably have zero where you live. But Down Under, it was used to burn, like charcoal. Not a pretty sight, but functional.
Four springs ago, a competition was held for biggest mallee root, and this entry from Tooleybuc (a glorious name) was just shy of winning. However, it was more photogenic than the winner, so please enjoy what appears to be a sports bra hanging from its upper root.
But mallee isn’t just for drying skivvies. No indeed. At the mallee root festival in Ouyen, guests witness root tossing competitions. Whoever throws a 9 kilo (nearly 20 lb) stump the furthest, wins. I suppose when they’re done, they can simply set fire to all the mallee and be done with it.
And if you were lucky enough to win the event’s root lotto, you could later enjoy the evening in the honeymoon suite at the Patchewollock Pub. Who knew pubs had suites? Well, this one even has murals.
Their Facebook site reads like another language:
The Dry and Flynn Gurry this Saturday night… Fairy floss and snacks available. Enter paddock next to the pub via Federation Street near the truck stage.”
In true I Don’t Get It fashion, I know not if these are cheeseheads, pyramid fans, or Delta crowns. I can surmise that tobacco is being shared, but I cannot fathom the reason for such ruffled collars. In any case, I hope these smiles are contagious.
The Roaring 20s (which seemed exponentially better than these current less-roaring/more rioting ones) offered these ladies the hedonistic pleasure of mounting a punt on the Thames during the Henley Regatta. To this day, if one is seated in The Stewards’ Enclosure, members must abide by a strict dress code of lounge suits for men and dresses or skirts ( with hemlines below the knee) for women. Culottes are specifically cited as unacceptable. This is a regatta, not a hootenanny! Clearly these gals were less about decorum and more about revelry.
You cannot tell by the expressions on the faces of these short-haired ladies, but they were truly in the presence of not only higher education, but higher decoration. So much is left to the imagination! Is that a tree on the left? If so, is this a Japanese painting of a willow tree at a stream? Is it prairie grass? Helter skelter? Kilroy was here? Is it simply the crayon chaos of a toddler? No matter. Patty, put more parmesan on the pizza.
These fellows presumably were denied the scrawled ambience of the former picture, but instead had a tableside jukebox. Or its it a phone? I can hardly tell.
Does this booth have a phone as well? Who were folks calling? Maybe in days of yore, before Instagramming your brunch, you called everyone you knew one by one, to describe the way the yolk ran out of the poach as your fork tine punctured it?
All I know is, this little frosh is eating away her cares with a nice serving of dessert! Sometimes it’s sad to be plaid.