Have some manners, for the love of God.

Today we will be taking a page from the book of Ben and his blog.  I am going to rant a little.

Now, I am the first to admit that I can be easily annoyed (not to be confused with easily annoying, though that is a little true, too).  I have more than several pet peeves.  Loud breathers, people who refuse to pick up their feet when they walk, skipping CD's, the overuse of the word "besties", the list goes on and on.  

One of my pet peeves that has reached dangerous levels in my old age is the lack of manners people have.  More specifically, the lack of manners people have to those serving them.  Cashiers, taxi drivers, mail carriers, receptionists, waiters.  Focusing on waiters for this post.

Let's forget for a moment that the waiter or waitress is a freaking person and should be treated with respect until they, I dunno, run your grandmother over with a car or some other respect-stripping act.  Instead, we'll pay attention to the fact that, at the very least, this person is handling your food.  

They have the ability (and determination due to your LACK OF MANNERS) to add any sort of foul substance to your plate without your knowing.  Watch the movie Waiting... if you don't believe me.  Talk to anyone who has worked in the food service industry.  They'll tell you, the nice patrons get extra bread rubbed with garlic and butter.  The rude ones get day-old breadsticks that rolled under the speed rack in the walk-in rubbed with murky dishwater and hatred. 

Ben and I were at a small noodle house for dinner yesterday at the Great Wall Mall.  The staff was attentive, smiling and accommodating, even to the white girl.  I couldn't have been more pleased.  

We were having a lovely dinner.  And then, this family comes in.  A mother, father and two young children.  


Immediately, the father starts ordering around whatever waitress he could find.  They're all there to serve him, right?  Put this chair here.  Get me some water.  I want lids and straws for my children.  Not a please or thank you or smile anywhere.  I gripped my chopsticks a little tighter.

I couldn't decide what pissed me off the most.  They interrupted my dinner?  The idea that his children will grow up to demand things just because daddy did?  Or the fact that this man felt he was right to treat people this way?  Who the hell was his mother?  I'd like to lodge a complaint.

Sometimes I think that people assume because they ask for something that it negates the need to add a please.  That it puts them in a place of requesting and humility in a way.  May I have the House Chow Mein?  Yeah, I don't care how you ask it.  That sentence needs a please, dammit.  Also, when you get brought anything, water, extra napkins, your bill, you say thank you.

Anytime I see or hear someone being rude it makes me overcompensate.  Well, comment loudly to Ben that people suck and then overcompensate.  The words my parents (and Joe Scruggs) taught me to use come out in full force, as if apologizing for my fellow man and his moron family.  

It makes me happy to think that one day they'll get theirs.  Probably in the form of dandruff atop their spaghetti or crumpled napkins from a back pocket.  Or a paisley boot to the back of the head.  (See how I got the boots in there at the very end?  You're welcome.)    

Have some manners, for the love of God.

Field Trip

Once upon a time there was a young girl who lived in the country.  She grew up among fields and farms, dairies and cows.  After many years of growing, the girl moved away.


Then, one June day, her Monte (see: dad) sent her all the pictures he had taken of cows up the hill from her childhood home.  The now grown-up girl begged her Monte to take her to see the sweet cows (which she had ignored her whole young life).  He, being the kind (if not somewhat cantankerous) father he was, obliged.  Saying only one point of caution.

"You'd better bring your boots."

Now, this post may be dull to those of you who blog (or like to read the blogs) about storm chasers, haute cuisine, or extreme sports.  But yesterday I had the BEST time at the organic dairy up the street from my parent's house visiting the most adorable cows on the planet.

These Jersey Cows (just like the one in Anne of Avonlea that ruins Rachel Lynde's prize winning cabbages) are not for eating (no matter what my husband tells you).  These are special milk cows, used for their higher fat content to make ice cream and butter.
   

They are also the most curious creatures.  

I walked to the gate and they all just kind of raised their heads and sauntered over closer.  

Who are you?  Can we lick you?

  These cows are raised on an organic dairy.  Which basically means none of the cows are treated with antibiotics.  This is quite a feat when you have hundreds of cows.  Hundreds of freakin' adorable cows.  Who were, in case anyone is wondering, just as soft as I expected them to be.

They were interested in my coat and boots. 

It took a while of standing still and cooing at the cows to get them to come close enough for me to touch.  They weren't scared at all, just wary.  But any quick movement by me was rippled in their many feet.  


This is Dora.  Ok, so I made up her name, whatever.  But "Here, 570, here girl." wasn't cutting it when I was coaxing her over.

This sweet girl was my most favorite.

 What the pictures don't show is just how big these cows were.  Driving past them on the road doesn't show it either.  They were huge.  The ones giving birth were even bigger and angrier, but you'd be huffy too if just after you birthed a calf you were ushered (see: chased) down the street to the main dairy.  Gentle and gigantic.

Want out please.

Ok, now to the super-de-duper cute part of the post.  Oh man, you will throw up cuteness for a week after seeing these little guys.  If it's too cute for you, here are some manly trucks. 

These cows are just born.  

They live in these cow condos to keep them extra warm until they are about two months old.  Then they move into the barn.   

Monte in the background, laughing at his daughter.

 As babies, they were much more jumpy than the old girls.  You so much as turn your head quick and they are back in their houses.  The one below never came out.  He was surly.  I would be too if all the other cows were fawn colored and I was polka-dotted.

This was the odd duck.

One day old.

 This one is my baby favorite.  Newdora.  She wasn't scared of me at all.  Licked my hand, let me pet her.  I would have made it off the farm with her if not for my dad giving me the dad look.

 I was a farmer in another life.  The houses, the boots, the people, the cows. . . I love them so.  For now I will have to settle with making best friends with the farmers up the hill and visiting their livestock whenever I go home.

Time to go now.

Hooked

My project this weekend was a new hat.  We are heading to the Star Wars exhibit at the Pacific Science Center this week (provided there aren't a flobitygillion sticky, loud, children there).

I thought something festive was in order.  

Yub nub.

My husband is a very good sport.  His head was sweaty.  Here is the other hat I made him.  He wears it while playing video games.  I think that's fitting.  

CAPtain (see, because it's a cap) America

The Ewok hat (yes, it's an ewok, even though it looks a little like Winnie the Pooh) was inspired by another project I took up last year.  All the Star Wars characters made from string.  Not yarn, but string.

You can see the stick he's holding is a toothpick.  He's roughly 1.5 inches tall.  Hairy little creature took about an hour to make.  

Here are his buddies. 

Princess Leia

R2D2

Yoda

I think R2D2 is my favorite.  He was the most fun to construct.  I also crocheted C3PO, Luke, Han, Chewy and Vader (3 times because he is such a pain) but they aren't as impressive as these guys.

I am well aware that I am a one trick pony.  I can't do much else aside from crochet and I'm fine with that.  But I can create just about anything from string.

Headbands

Flower clips

Baby hats

I made the hat, not the baby.

Wow, second post and already no reference to boots or left hands.  Well, uh, here.  All of these projects were completed in my house.  And my boots live in the garage of said house.  So, it's not that much of a stretch... right?

The First Boot Post

Welcome!

This blog, as I think most out there are, will simply serve as an outlet.  Be it creative, curious, venting, or boring, it's an outlet.  More for the blogger than reader.  


"Blog" in this case will stand for boots log. (Get it, because blog and boots log are practically the same word.)  And yes, I know that the title of the blog is "Bacon's Boot Blog" and with the above logic the title is redundant.  But it's like FedEx Express.  Sometimes you have to say it twice.


I expect themes noted in the description will soon disappear once I've exhausted all my left-handed material.  Or when I stop taking my boots places.  Or when I decide to be like my dad and take many many digressions and still return to make my point.  Or I get distracted.  Most likely the last one.

These are my boots.  

This picture was taken on an adventure to the Arboretum in Seattle.  Beth and I had a list of what we wanted to do with our time off.  Getting lost in the trees and trails of this gigantic park was on the list.  

It was a beautiful day, cold and muddy, just how I like it.  The boots trekked (quickly, as I fall when I walk slow) up a hill of mud to the gazebo on the top of a hill.  The view was less than impressive so I took a picture of the boots instead. 

The cherry trees had just hit their stride of amazing blooming.  I've always wondered if cherry blossoms smell.  So down the hill we ran to find out.  They don't smell so much.  A little like cherries, but that is more my brain saying they should smell like cherries.  Pictures like this make me want to be on the east coast for the Cherry Blossom Festival. 

I did try to make it snow cherry blossoms by shaking the tree, but alas, they were new flowers and clung to their sticks.  You can be sure as the season goes on that any tree I pass with fluttering petals is getting all shook up.

Near the end of the day it became more difficult to keep what I call "the destructive child inside me" in check...

Thankfully for my finger (and the plant I would have stomped had it hurt me), Beth was there to suggest that maybe poking the pointy plant wasn't, you know, the best idea I'd had all day.  (I did still touch it, just not hard.)

My boots have been many places in the past and will continue to visit many in the future.  I trust the blog will serve as a, well, (b)log of their travels and myself in them.  I understand if no one can hear me and my stories, the boots are just screaming as loud as they can.